Keep Me Closer Still
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War: Third instalment of the 'Keep Me…" series. Foyle, now the eager family man, is ready to leave policing behind for good. Just as he retires from the force, a news headline with an all too familiar name dredges up old memories. While weaving through his painful past, Foyle races to save a man's life. Could this prove to be his most costly battle yet?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Third in the "Keep Me..." series. This story takes place after the war in August 1945 (during the episode _The Hide_), as well as going back to Foyle's painful memories of his soldiering days. As a new father again, Foyle looks forward to retiring from the force, but a name from his past brings him suddenly face to face with some of his darkest hours.

Many thanks to LauraRaposa and dancesabove for helping me realise there was more of this story to tell, and again to dancesabove for the title.

As always, comments are greatly appreciated.

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

><p>Chapter 1<p>

**August 1945**

The soft trickle of water over smooth stones sounded peaceful there by the narrow banks, tripping along under a summer sun, an almost imperceptible breeze brushing across the reeds. A small splash came from the far bank, ripples moving outwards from the fly that hung there as if suspended, before whipping away again with a soft _thwick_. Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle moved his fly gracefully over the water, letting it drop at last near the shaded far bank. It was nearing midday and was really too hot for the fish. _Should have come earlier._

Looking around, keen eyes watching for any movement, he shifted in his waders, chewing his cheek contemplatively. Sighing softly, he rolled his shoulders, glad to feel the warm sun there. A soft gurgle came from the near bank followed by a coo and he broke into a smile. The lines at the edges of his eyes crinkled as the smile grew. He turned carefully to look over his shoulder and saw them sitting there on the rug in the shade. _Never mind the fish today_ he thought as he began reeling in his line.

She might have been a young queen sat there on the soft rise of grass under the tree, sunlight dappling through its boughs. She wore a pale pink dress with a straw hat, leaning easily against the tree's trunk. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looked up, face shining at him with a full lipped smile. She was_ his_ queen, certainly, and his heart, as ever, swelled with an immense love and pride. The gurgling child at her breast did the same for him, and his pace quickened, wanting to be near them.

Foyle carefully put away his rod and tackle, balancing precariously as he slipped off his waders. When it was all stowed away he flung himself down beside them on the rug, pushing his old, battered, green trilby higher on his forehead. Feeling hot, he reached for the metal cup she'd placed in ready waiting for him, draining it.

"Fish not biting?"

"Too hot."

"Gorgeous here in the shade though."

"You look gorgeous yourself," he replied, grinning up at her. "How are you both?"

Samantha Foyle looked down at the suckling child, smiling happily, "Starving at usual."

He laughed, "Well…had to get it from somewhere. Shall we eat?"

"Rather!"

Foyle pulled the basket towards him, laying out the picnic things. Though the war was over, rationing was still in effect and it was a meagre feast. His mind went back to the trout beyond his reach, and he looked forward to having endless days of fishing after tomorrow. It was to be his last day at the Police, a replacement, a good eight weeks late in coming, had finally been instated. He couldn't wait to leave.

With a satisfied gurgle, the child resurfaced and Sam dragged her eyes away from the spread Foyle was laying out. As she shifted the child and made to refasten the front of the dress, Foyle smirked and said in a low, teasing voice, "You don't have to on my account…I, er, like to have a nice view with my lunch."

She gave him a stern look that quickly melted in to laughter, "It will put me off, you staring, so do behave."

Foyle chuckled and edged closer to them both. "And how is my best girl?"

Sam leaned over to kiss his cheek, "Why don't you take her for a bit?"

She eased the child into his arms, who was already fast on her way to falling asleep. The little face he looked down upon never failed in making his breath catch. He chest seemed to swell every time he looked at her, and once more his face creased into a smile. Sam touched his cheek with a gentle hand, giving him such a loving look that Foyle thought his heart might burst. He swayed slightly to help the bundle in his arms towards sleep.  
>He could never forget the day she was born; he often thought it was the happiest day of his life. War to be declared officially over the next day, his son home at last, safe and whole, and a new daughter that had melted him the moment he saw her, brought into the world by the woman he adored. Remembering back to three months before, Foyle beamed inwardly.<p>

* * *

><p>When the newborn's cry interrupted his pacing of the front room, Foyle had immediately turned to Andrew, a grin already plastered on his face. He went to the bottom of the stairs, hesitating, wondering if he should wait to be summoned. Moving back and forth by the bottom step, rubbing his forehead and smiling, he waited all of a few minutes before the insistent and indignant cry of the baby drew him upwards. He did his best not to race up the stairs. Outside their bedroom door he hesitated again, not wanting to be sent away by the midwife.<p>

"Sam?" he called out finally, pushing the door open carefully. The infant's cry was beginning to settle. His heart was racing as he peered around the door.

"By rights," the midwife began sternly, not looking up at him, "men should wait until they are wanted."

Foyle swallowed hard, trying to see around her to get a glimpse of Sam. The older lady turned to him, eyes twinkling slightly and Foyle felt a sudden relief. He came towards them, and his eyes became bright as he saw Sam with the child, still sticky and wriggling against her breast. She looked up at him, face shining with exertion, finding his eyes. Her own danced and sparkled, matching the large smile.

"A little girl, Mr Foyle," said the midwife, tidying away, pausing briefly to smile down at the mother and daughter.

He came around the bed to sit on the edge, putting a hand of Sam's shoulder. His mouth was slightly open, marvelling at them.

"You were right," Sam said with a laugh, "as usual."

Tears slipped from his eyes as he smiled at her, the corners of his mouth turning down. He edged closer, putting his lips to her temple, "Oh my brave and wonderful darling. How clever of you. She's beautiful. Are you all right?"

He murmured this at her with an unaccustomed speed, and she took his hand, saying soothingly, "We're both fine, my darling. A little tired."

The midwife nodded, "She's done a fine job, Mr Foyle. If only my work were this easy ever day, eh Sam?"

Sam smiled up at her, looking both grateful and pleased.

"Righto, I think I'll go find that son of yours and see if he can be persuaded to make me a cup of tea," said the midwife, twinkling at them again. "I'll be back shortly."

"Will you bring him up with you when you come back, Nurse?" Sam asked. "He'd never come on his own."

The midwife chuckled, closing her bag with a snap. "I will."

She closed the door softly behind her. Foyle let his forehead rest against Sam's, both looking down at the now quiet little baby girl. Her eyes drooped in sleepiness.

"You both must be exhausted," he said softly.

"A bit." Sam nestled into the crook of his arm. "Glad you're here."

"Of course."

"What shall we call her?"

Foyle grinned, a few more tears slipping past his nose, "Hadn't thought. You decide."

"Well, my mother managed to stave off any of my father's inclinations of rather righteous names, like _Purity_ or _Chastity_ for me."

Foyle chuckled, "I should jolly well hope so."

"But I couldn't help but like the name _Constance._ What do you think? She'd have the same initials as you then."

The tears were streaming down his face now, though a smile still played about his lips. He thought his heart might leap from his body with joy. "Call her Connie for short?"

"Yes."

"All right."

Sam kissed him and he realised she too had been crying.

"Welcome to Hastings, Constance Foyle…" he murmured throatily, voice catching.

Andrew and the midwife came in a bit later to soft tones, Foyle holding the child and speaking to her. Andrew stared, just as his father had done, marvelling at something so small and precious.

"Come meet your sister, Andrew." Foyle stood and carried the child towards him. "This is Constance."

Andrew could only nod, a large lump growing in his throat. Foyle handed her over, cradling the head carefully. Andrew stared at her, a slow smile spreading across his features. He looked up at Sam who grinned back at him. "She's beautiful," he choked, eyes suddenly becoming bright.

The midwife went on tidying and bustling behind them, beaming to herself. Foyle sat on the edge of the bed, taking up Sam's hand. In that room was everything he loved, and he felt full of life and joy, heart overflowing with happiness.

Shortly after, leaving Andrew to goggle at his baby sister, Foyle showed the midwife out, thanking her profusely and shaking her hand.

"Righto, I'll come round in the morning and see how they are getting on. And mind you all get some rest." She looked at him kindly, and Foyle wondered how often she saw grown men reduced to tears by the birth of their children.

Leaning against the door after it had closed, unable to stop smiling, he saw the telephone on the stand in the hall and thought he'd best make some calls. He telephoned Lyminster's vicarage first, checking his wristwatch. Nearly teatime. _Trust Sam to be done and dusted in time for tea…_he mused, smiling to himself. Reverend Iain Stewart answered on the third ring.

"Iain, it's Christopher."

They exchanged pleasantries before Foyle said quickly, "Just telephoning to say you have a granddaughter, beautiful and healthy, and both are doing fine."

The other man seemed to have lost his voice for a moment, for when he answered it sounded thick and full of emotion. Foyle too felt his throat constrict again, and he shook his head, wondering at himself. Mrs Stewart came on next, and they arranged for her to come up in a few days time.

"Give you all a bit of time to get into a routine," Mrs Stewart said sensibly, "and she won't want me sticking my nose in. She'll manage perfectly, and you've been through it before."

_Over twenty-five years ago…_Foyle thought with a pang.

After ringing off with Sam's parents at the vicarage, he paused, picking up the receiver again. He waited, chewing his lip as it rang.

"St Mary's Vicarage," said a bright voice on the other end.

"Aubrey, it's Christopher."

"Christopher, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"I'm _very_ well," he began, "Sam's just had a baby girl."

Foyle could almost hear the other man smiling, and Aubrey's enthusiasm made his throat constrict again. _I'm well on my way to becoming an old woman_, Foyle thought severely, wiping his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.

* * *

><p>"You're dreaming away there, my love," Sam said, breaking into his thoughts.<p>

Foyle smiled, "Oh just remembering the day she was born, that's all…"

It also reminded Foyle of Andrew, and he hoped that his son would be successful in his interviews this week in London. After a summer of having a full house, the father and son enjoying their time of catching up, it felt strange not to see him everyday.

"Wonder how Andrew's getting on? He should be back in a day or two," Sam added, as ever capable of reading his thoughts.

He grinned at her, "Let's hope he's found something."

"He'll have charmed his way in, I'm sure."

Sam passed him a sandwich, "She asleep?"

"Nearly."

"Are you _sure_ you won't let me organise a proper retirement party, Christopher?"

"_Quite_. You know I don't like to make a fuss."

"Don't like a fuss being made over you, you mean," Sam retorted, taking a large bite of her sandwich.

"Yes, well…"

"But dinner at home with a few friends _isn't_ a fuss."

"But what's the point? I'd rather have a large whiskey and a quiet evening with you."

"You're impossible." She shook her head, laughing to herself.

"_Yep_…"

The next day Sam was up early as usual, going through the morning routine with the baby before slipping downstairs with her. She knew Foyle didn't want to make a fuss about his last day, but she put a small wrapped package by his place setting and set to making him a nice cooked breakfast. Connie gurgled happily enough in the pram by the door and Sam kept a constant stream of chatter going towards her.

Foyle came through into the kitchen with a hearty, "Good morning, how are my girls?"

Sam turned from the stove to kiss his freshly shaved cheek, "I've got your breakfast nearly ready."

He gave her a little squeeze, looking over her shoulder and teasing, "Smells nice...um, what's the occasion?"

She gave him a little push with her bottom, "Go sit down with a cup of tea and I'll be through."

Going to the pram, he scooped up Connie with a grin, murmuring to her and bouncing her as he walked through the kitchen.

"Mind you don't bring her milk up," Sam said, pouring the tea. She looked around them, "What's Daddy doing, eh? Undoing all my hard work, no doubt."

He made a face and sat down at the table, Foyle letting Connie grab at his tie with her tiny fists. Seeing the small package on the table, he unwrapped it slowly with one hand. Inside were a lovely pair of cuff links and he smiled broadly, feeling spoiled. "Sam, the cuff links...they are lovely. Thank you, darling."

Sam stuck her head out to look at him, "Just a little something to mark the occasion." They smiled at each other before she ducked back in to deal with the cooking.

She was just loading his plate with the best breakfast rationing could offer when she heard a squelching sound from behind her. Sam groaned.

"Bring a cloth would you, Sam, she's sicked up."

"A little or a lot?"

"_Enough_," Foyle said dryly.

Sam sighed and went in to see the damage. Luckily it had only made it on to his trousers. "I _did_ warn you."

Foyle kissed the top of the baby's head, "You're both in league against me, aren't you? Now Andrew's away and I'm the only chap?"

Sam tutted and said, "Right, give her to me and get those off."

Foyle looked up, slightly amused, raising an eyebrow mischievously.

Sam rolled her eyes at him, "If I wash it out now, it will be easier later on."

His tongue touched his top lip and he tilted his head to one side, "Oh I see…"

When he was standing holding out his trousers he was left only in his shirt and socks and Sam sidled up beside him, holding Connie. "Not everyday I get this with a cup of tea," she said with a half smile.

Foyle slipped an arm around her waist, and seeing he was forgiven, gave her a deep kiss. "See, I don't need a party when I've got you…" His eyes held a promise of things to come, and Sam nipped his bottom lip playfully.

He cleared his throat, "Better, er, find something else to wear for now."

"Yes, they might not appreciate your legs as much as I do…" she said over her shoulder, going back into the kitchen.

The fact that Foyle was glad to be retiring was apparent to the whole Constabulary, and with a pretty wife and new baby at home, it was understandable. What they didn't realise perhaps was that Foyle had had enough of bureaucracy and had been chomping at the bit since last spring. Having expected to be replaced soon after the war was over, it had come as a nasty disappointment when he was told there was no one else and he would just have to stay put. He'd disliked being away from home so much over the summer with a never ending stream of cases coming across his desk. It wasn't simply local business either, but the War Office for everlasting sticking its nose in, Russian POWs going missing, and the Americans ready to return home. Enough was enough.

He'd had a spring in his step and an easy manner since Connie had arrived, as if she had brought something out in him that had been filed away. He was quick to smile now, to laugh and to joke, and the men of the Constabulary were more than a little anxious about who the new DCS would be. Foyle had been a decent man to work for, it was agreed.

Foyle came into the new Police Station, still thinking as he did most days, that new didn't necessary mean better. As he made his way upstairs he put his mind on the last things he needed to finish. His office was a horrible glass and window blinds affair that made him feel like he was sitting in a fish bowl. It did, however have a nice view over the Old Town. He stared out at it for a bit, hands in his pockets, thinking it had been a long road to this point.

By afternoon, his reports were finalised and the filing all in order. He stuck his head out of the office, looking down the corridor towards the desk sergeant and got a surprise as a line of uniformed men came striding towards him. He drew back, rolling his eyes. _Should have known I couldn't get away this easy…_

The men began to clap, and young Detective Constable Hadley, who had dogged his heels with a quiet enthusiasm during the summer, drew him out of the office, smiling at him eagerly. "We all just wanted to say goodbye and thank you, sir," he said respectfully.

"Really now," Foyle put up his hands, "don't you all have work that needs doing?"

Someone yelled, "Speech!" There was a ripple of laughter before it went quiet, the men looking at Foyle in silent admiration.

"Right, well…" Foyle shoved his hands into his pockets, "I'm no good at these things and, er, truth is I can't wait to get away — far more fish to be caught than criminals, luckily for me." He smiled, looking down for a moment, "We've done a good job here so far, and I'm pleased to have known you. Keep up the good work. So…I'll leave the criminals to you experts, and I'll have a bash at the fish."

Someone said, "Hear, hear!" and they all began to clap again. Foyle had his arm pumped and hand squeezed as he went around, the men flashing him genuine smiles and hearty well wishes of, "Good luck, sir!". He allowed himself to enjoy it all for a moment.

A plainclothes man pushed his way through, looking almost shy. "Hallo," he began, shaking Foyle's hand, "I'm DCS Clarkson."

Foyle grinned, "I know exactly who you are, how do you do?"

The men dispersed down the corridor and Foyle edged back into his office, "Do come in."

"I'm here to replace you."

"Well, so I understand — what kept you?" Foyle grinned round at him from the hat stand where his black trilby hung.

He plucked it up for the last time, taking a breath. "You'll be very pleased to hear everything is in order. My report is there on the desk for you. What it doesn't mention, however, is that anything related to current investigations you'll find here," he patted the top of a filing cabinet before moving on briskly.

"All pre-war and war-time records are kept next door — just ask the desk sergeant and he'll be happy to help."

He bounced on his toes, looking about the office one last time, "Right, I think that is about it. Congratulations on the post, or commiserations, whichever you like, and jolly good luck."

Foyle shook that man's hand again, jammed his hat on his head, departing with, "A pleasure to meet you. Goodbye," leaving DCS Clarkson somewhat open-mouthed and bewildered in the glass office.

Very nearly racing down the steps, Foyle grinned inwardly, more than ready for long mornings over tea with his girls, lazy hours of fishing, evenings in with Sam…his heart raced as he started his car, looking forward to getting back to that something promised.

With thoughts of his little family in the forefront of his mind, he drove carefully towards home. Stopping at a corner to wait for traffic he heard a news-crier yell out the day's headline. His mind registered the words slowly, and with a frown he turned towards the man, looking for his board that would hold the headline. Foyle froze, his eyes racing over the letters, recognising the name.

The board read:

_London Evening Courier_: "DEVEREAUX TREASON TRIAL"

_It can't be…Devereaux…no, no it can't be…_

Face suddenly very grave, he slid out of the car, crossing the street and paid for a newspaper. On the front page, there in black and white, was the heading, "British Free Corps Treason Trial", next to a photo with _James Robert Devereaux - member of the British Free Corp_ written underneath. Getting back into the car, Foyle read the article through twice at top speed, his heart sinking with each word. The young man in the photograph stared up at him.

A haunted, and yet somehow _familiar_ face.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**August 1945**

The waves rushed in over the pebbles of the beach below. It was a fine day; a fine day for retirement, and yet now Foyle felt suddenly trapped. He could not walk away from this… _from him_. The name compelled him certainly, but the lingering shame of the word _treason_ from the headline did too. He owed it to _her_ to do something.

Having parked on the Parade, Foyle crossed and went down towards the beach, at last cleared of anti-invasion barbed wire. He looked back at the Parade over his shoulder, remembering how they had marched down it as young men, chests thrown out with pride, off to war nearly a lifetime ago.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets he ambled down across the pebbled beach. He'd thought more about the first war in last year or so than he had for a long time. First Sam finding those old photographs of him in uniform in the desk drawer, and then his former commanding officer, Brigadier Wilson, coming down to Hastings on War Office business, bringing up the past. He'd asked if Foyle had seen any of their old company and Foyle had bit back, _who was left, really?_

_Ian Lowe, who came to our wedding, a few others who had retreated to their farms and factories_…but like him, they didn't want to be reminded. They'd lost touch.

Over dinner with the Brigadier, he had brought up Passchendaele, calling it a "bloody mess," and asking Foyle if he ever thought about it.

_Not if I can help it_, he'd said — now here he was, unable to think of anything **_but_** the last war, after years of successfully forgetting. That was, however, just the problem: he _hadn't_ forgotten…

In 1915 Foyle had volunteered with all the rest. He'd already completed his police training and had been working at the same constabulary as his father for a little more than half a year. With the sudden need for able bodied men, and all his peers volunteering, he was glad for the interruption of war. Being a soldier seemed much more glamorous than a policeman. They had been sent to somewhere near Salisbury for training, and at first it had seemed like good fun. Drilling and marching weren't so bad, and Foyle was trained up as a rifleman because of his keen eyes. He made friends quickly and easily, and by the time they were on their way to Boulogne, they were ready to show the enemy what was what. _Private Christopher Foyle, 5th Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment_… he could even still rattle off his number without thinking.

Landing in France it was quickly realised just how ill-equipped they really were. They were met by harried officers and men who were coarse and harsh, not impressed with the new wave of recruits. The men of the 1st Army showed off by telling Foyle and his friends such awful things, laughing at their horrified faces. Foyle began to doubt his bravado, but only said in his postcard home, "Who thought I'd ever come to France? The flowers are in bloom and I'm thinking of you both."

Training continued in the camp, showing them how to be offensive and the intricate tactics of trench warfare under the command of a man who conducted them as if they were a boys choir. The others made fun of him behind his back, but he was fair, so Foyle didn't mind him. It was not long before they were shipped up the lines. From the camp full of tents, they marched along the roads just before dawn, heavy packs soon settling themselves against their backs, past green fields and woods. They sang songs and made jokes as if it were all a game; all eager for their chance to shoot down "the Bosche". The further they went however, the more churned the earth became, long tracks severing fields, and large holes pockmarking the landscape that lay in front of them. They heard the Front before they saw it, echoing booms and clinging smoke; a wound-up bustling of humanity, all yells and orders; mud thick and sucking, all beauty erased from the face of the earth. A vision of hell.

It was then Foyle first learnt what real fear was. The continuous shelling got right into a man's head, ears forever ringing. The trenches were worse than the rumours, but it seemed one could get used to anything after a while. They learned to sleep through the noise out of necessity; ignored the rats; became able to read mud, knowing which types would bog you down. Their lives became one of routine: a spell on the front line, then moving back to the support lines before having a bout of rest in camps near the reserve lines or even some leave in a nearby village. The days were made up of scheduled shelling, duties, repair work on the trench, leisure time of trying to keep clean and writing letters, and what only ever seemed like snippets of rest.

After each strafing they worked busily on repairs, fitting new duckboards or digging new sections. Then there were the daily _stand to's_ before breakfast and at nightfall, when they stood on the fire step — a jutting out edge about two feet higher than the bottom of the trench that allowed them to look over the top and fire on the enemy. Foyle was a good shot, and the others often took bets on his marksmanship, which made him feel cheap.

He kept on learning though, forever asking questions about the how and why; learning to think on his feet and how to keep himself and his kit in decent nick. He knew if he did not, he would not last long. For this he was soon promoted and by the new year he was sent home on a short leave as a Corporal.

A friend called Richard Walsh also had leave at the same time, and Foyle was glad of the company. After continuously being with others, he was anxious about being left alone. There seemed to be a greater safety in numbers. Walsh was a year older and had a ruddy, laughing face, and never saw the bad side of anything. He was mad about fishing and knew all the best spots in the river to tempt the trout out.

Back in Hastings, they had palled around the entire leave as they lived not far from each other. Walsh persuaded Foyle to let him take him fishing and show him how it was done. With the mild weather, they were able to spend a good deal of time down at the river.

"Rotten, bloody Bosche spoiling things. After all this is over, Chris," Walsh had said wistfully, "I'm going to spend every day fishing. I don't care what anyone says."

Foyle felt the peace of the river and enjoyed the subtle thrill of the catch, and he readily agreed that it was the best way to spend a day. If he had to be ankle deep in mud, he'd rather it be here in a calm river than back at the Front. The rest of leave was spent learning how to tie flies and mastering the casting technique under Walsh's patient tutelage.

Walsh's father had a camera, and it was Walsh himself who had taken the photograph Sam had found; the one in the back garden with Foyle looking so self-important and smug. It was developed and sent to his mother after the two men had gone again. They had returned to France to find themselves part of a push and they were immediately sent up the lines to somewhere near Hébuterne.

After being at home, able to sleep in the quiet of his own childhood bed, have hot meals and feel clean, being back was harder than ever. Foyle half wished he hadn't had any leave at all. The lice found him at once, and he was back to scratching like a dog. They were fighting a battle against the stinking mud and driving rain as well the enemy. It became harder to remember there was another way of life. Men came and went, some coming to relieve their regiment, others being sent away on stretchers. There were moments of constant movement, and other times of tedious waiting, only endless cigarettes to keep them company. The waiting was the worse of the two, Foyle decided. The mood was calm enough though, and any grousing was in good spirits. They still had the appetite for going over the top to meet the enemy when the time came. For days, caked in mud like an extra skin, they did their best to hold their ground whilst keeping their heads down in case of snipers. They caught sight of the Hun in their lines when the shelling stopped for an hour or more sometimes, and it made the men all the more eager.

While Foyle had previously been able to stand the shelling and keep his head, now the whistling and cracking and the thundering shakes of the earth were slowly getting to him. From the moment he awoke, he felt his entire body tense up against the onslaughts, starting at his legs and moving upwards. It caught at his throat, constricting it; he felt sick from the tension. He took to chewing his lips and the inside of his cheeks, as it seemed to ease the tension around his throat a bit. His lips became raw from this constant worrying, cracking and often bleeding. It became a habit he had never broken.

At one point, four of them were given seven hour passes and they went on the back of a supplies wagon pulled by two Dray horses to a nearby village, wrapped heavily in their Greatcoats. Foyle dreamt of handing over his uniform to be de-loused and becoming clean again. The place seemed to cater to the troops especially, and had all they wanted: wine, hot water, women. He and Walsh went halves on a room, both desperate for a good wash. While Walsh was in the bath, Foyle had a large, rich meal downstairs in the hotel, drinking steadily. Walsh came down to join him for a drink before it was his turn for a wash.

Foyle returned to the room, sitting heavily on a chair and slowly unwrapping the puttees around his boots. He was more than grateful to be shot of his clothes. He spent an hour in the bath, drinking more wine and letting the water soothe his skin. After, Foyle fell asleep almost immediately when he sat on the bed to pull his fresh trousers on. Walsh woke him when it was time to go. It had been the last day Foyle had seen him alive. On the line it had been straight back into it, and Walsh had been sent out on a patrol with two others into the churned land before the trench to fix the barbed wire that seemed to belt them in like a cage. They had found Walsh two days later, strung up on a stretch of wire, having bled to death from bullet wounds.

In many ways, Foyle thought of that moment as the beginning of what was to come. Losing Walsh was the starting point of something different, he still believed. More men were falling as the push went forwards. Foyle, already coarse and harsh like the others, now turned quiet and stopped asking his questions. The keenness he had felt for strafing the opposing trenches seemed to wane, wishing now for only a bit of peace and quiet. His feelings became blunted, and he could not remember one day from the next and followed orders gladly, relieved he did not have to think for himself. It was this perhaps, this distraction of conscience and drawing inwards, that was the reason he finally had been caught out when they made their offensive outside of Arras. His father had always told him to give every job his full attention, and it was this thought that slipped through his mind when he hit the earth.

* * *

><p><strong>April 1917<strong>

Someone had seen to him, he was fairly sure about that. He remembered landing on his front but he was on his back now. He ached all over and though he opened his eyes, he could see only darkness. _I wish the ground would stop pitching…_

"Easy now lads, that's right," said a voice above him.

Foyle felt himself being moved again and cried out from both pain and fear, wanting to know what was happening, wishing he could see. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand held him down.

"Where do you think you're going, eh? You've had a belting from the old Bosche, lad, best sit tight."

Feeling he couldn't ask the pressing question of, _will I live?_, Foyle instead asked for a drink of water. He heard the sound of a match being struck, the brief whiff of sulphur filling his nostrils, and a face came into view. Foyle breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't blind after all. The man looked at him keenly then blew out the match. A hand slipped under his head, lifting it fractionally, and he felt a canteen at his lips.

"Now sit tight. You're headed to Blighty, lucky devil."

"But what's happened?" Foyle finally asked, trying to look down and see the outline of himself. Everything hurt, but he _seemed_ all right. They must have come out to look for bodies in No Man's Land after dark and found him. He remembered bits and pieces, but it was hard to grasp the thoughts tightly enough to hold on to.

"Stopped a bullet didn't ya? All right for some, having a lie down." The voice was near again, the man standing close. They moved forwards and Foyle blinked as the yellow lantern light suddenly seared his eyes. Around him he heard sounds of anguish and he gritted his teeth.

A voice with a Scottish lilt was near his head. He felt a blinding pain on his left side and he stiffened with a cry. Part of Foyle's mind tried to register the words the man murmured over him and he had the fleeting thought, _I do wish someone would tell me what's going on…_ A soft _tap,tap_ of a fingernail against glass sounded by his ear.

"You'll be home by morning," the voice said.

Foyle still felt confused as he slipped away, back to the darkness. When he came to again, the ground was rolling once more, a loud thrumming blocking up his ears. He felt hot and thirsty; he sensed the press of people around him. Turning his head he saw a line of men in the soft glow from a swinging lantern. If he looked anything like them, he knew it was bad. He tried to get a look at himself again, but moving hurt. Trying to piece together the last events he could remember took too much effort and he closed his eyes tightly. Praying for it to be over soon, he thankfully lost consciousness again.

The ground was at last still when he next woke. Blinking against the sudden light, he saw a face that he would never forget. He felt cool fingers on his wrist and he blinked again. She was not looking at him, but rather concentrating on the watch pinned to her front. Dressed in a severely starched nurse's uniform, her dark hair stood out against the shocking white. She seemed to glow and he half thought she might be an angel but for the uniform. He didn't like to interrupt her and waited until she let go of his wrist.

He tried to say, "Where am I?" but it came out a mumbled mess and she looked at him with clear blue eyes, face breaking into a smile.

"Good morning," she said.

Foyle thought he had never heard such a beautiful voice and he was desperate to say something in return so she would speak again. This time he managed, "water…"

She helped him drink down an entire glass, and when he leaned back against the pillow he cleared his throat. "Where am I please, Nurse?" he asked weakly.

She smiled again, "You are in Brighton, Corporal Foyle, being treated for a wound in your left arm, two broken ribs and a fair amount of cuts and bruises."

Now that he was awake she became brisk and business like. "First thing's first: let's get you cleaned up."

She reached for his shirt, and it was only now Foyle realised he was still in his uniform. The shirt had been draped around his shoulders like a cape and she peeled it back slowly, putting a wet cloth against his arm. The blood had seeped through from the wound, plastering the bandage and shirt together. He felt woolly headed and wondered if he was properly conscious. _She's too pretty to be a nurse…_

She smiled, "That's the morphine talking, Corporal Foyle…"

Foyle looked at her, unaware he had spoken aloud.

"You know my name," he mumbled.

"Of course."

"What's yours?" he asked, feeling he should at least be polite.

"Nurse Devereaux, how do you do. Now, relax if you would and allow me to get you clean."

Foyle blushed suddenly and cleared his throat again. "I am sure I can walk to the wash tent."

She snorted, "There is no wash tent, Corporal. You're not at camp now — you are in Hospital. They've done a fine job of patching you up, but you've brought half of France back with you."

A luke-warm flannel slipped along his arm and across his chest, coming away black with mud. Her practised movements were steady and rhythmic, having done this many times before. It felt pleasant and it lulled him into relaxation, and for the first time in many months he felt the tension leave him. _God, I'm tired…_

She put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him carefully into a sitting position. He tried to help her so he wouldn't be so heavy, but it only made him breath in sharply through his teeth, pain catching him unaware.

"I've got you," she said softly.

The flannel moved across his back and she inched closer, trying to get a better hold of him. She smelled of roses and a few strands of her hair tickled against his ear. Foyle felt her chest against his unhurt arm and he wished he had the strength to put his arms around her. _Is she real?_ He wanted to slip away into the safety of her arms…to be told it would be all right.

His head lolled against her, and she eased him back on to the pillows, one hand on the back of his head, fingers in his thick dark hair. "You with me, Corporal?"

Foyle grunted, eyes flickering. He didn't dare close them in case she disappeared. _Perhaps I'm dreaming?_

"Are you in pain?"

"Not really," he murmured bravely.

One corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile. "You all say that." She went on with her washing, the water dripping down his skin in soft droplets, making him shiver.

Her hands moved to his trousers and he tensed, putting out his good arm to stay her hand.

She pushed his hand away gently, "I'm a trained nurse, Corporal, and if we don't get you cleaned up you are only going to make my work more difficult further down the road."

"I don't want to be any bother, I'm sure I can do it myself."

"You can hardly sit up." She looked at him shrewdly. "If you stop fidgeting, it will be over before you know it."

A pair of pyjamas lay on the end of the bed and he thought _what luxury_…

"If you say so…" His eyes drooped and he fought to keep them open. He sensed the flannel moving over his legs. A sharp stinging from his right thigh make him hiss in pain.

"Yes, nasty. Be brave a moment and I'll put something on it."

A sharp smell filled his nostrils and he groaned when a cold press came against his skin.

"Sorry, I know it isn't pleasant. You're doing very well."

Foyle thought he might lose consciousness again and he began to tremble with the effort of fighting off the darkness. He felt so vulnerable and tired. He was aware of her moving around him, but he felt far removed.

It wasn't long before he was being tucked up. She had re-bandaged his arm, put a fresh salve on his leg, and wound his torso tightly for the ribs. Her cool hand was at his forehead now and she frowned. "Hmm, I did wonder," she said to herself.

He tried to smile at her, managing only a downwards turn of his lips, "Will I live, Nurse Devereaux, after all that trouble?"

She smiled back at him, "Oh yes, I rather think so, Corporal Foyle. Rest now and I'll be back soon."

He watched her walk away from the bedside, moving the draped panel to one side to step out. Her footsteps clipped down the ward and Foyle was alone for the first time. Closing his eyes at last, he whispered her name to remind himself she _had_ been real. He fell back to sleep with dreams of her touch and the spark of her smile in his mind.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I am grateful to the book of letters, _A 'Temporary Gentleman' in France_ by Captain A J Dawson for insights into trench life. My knowledge of the Great War is only what I've read, seen, and heard, so any mistakes are my own.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**April 1917**

Foyle woke to the sounds of the bustling ward and groaned before opening his eyes. Everything ached and his brain felt slow. He blinked and things came into focus. The panels around his bed had been removed and he could see right across the room. The low sunlight streaming through the windows at the far end indicated it was afternoon. He wondered how long he had slept. An old, bearded doctor was making the rounds and he stopped when he saw Foyle was awake.

"Ah, hallo. You'll be up and at 'em in no time, Corporal. How are we after your journey?"

"Feel like I've been run down by a bus…" Foyle croaked, throat itchy and parched.

The doctor laughed as if he'd just heard a joke and added, "Stopping a bullet will do that. They did a decent job of getting it out, so you'll live and be back before you know it."

He was so damned cheerful that Foyle felt inclined to dislike him.

"I'll leave you in Nurse Devereaux's capable hands," he said, moving on.

At this, Foyle brightened. _Nurse Devereaux!_ There were gaps in his memory of the last few days, but he was sure he hadn't dreamt her. She was the brightest point in his thoughts of the last months. He smiled to himself, remembering her beautiful face, her lovely dark hair, her blue eyes. He had felt drawn to the sadness in her eyes as well as her beauty and kindly manner.

Coming to slowly, his mind was full of her. He guessed she lived in Brighton and he had the impression that she was slightly older than him. The sudden thought that she may in fact be married crossed his mind. Either way, he wanted to know more about her. Thinking about her was easier than thinking about himself, so he let her wander across his thoughts. She was, if anything, a good incentive to get better.

As if conjured up by these thoughts, she appeared at the edge of his vision, bearing a tray with tea things. Foyle's face broke into a smile, then he winced, as that hurt too. He reached up with his good hand to feel for the damages. A graze, nothing more.

"Good morning, Corporal Foyle."

Foyle smiled, more carefully this time. "Nurse Devereaux."

She set down a cup of tea on the small bedside table.

"I was just thinking about you."

"Lucky me," she smiled, reaching for his wrist to take his pulse.

Foyle felt his heart begin to race.

She quirked her lips as if fighting back a grin, "A little fast, but the morphine has probably worn off a bit."

Foyle coloured, feeling self-conscious. She suddenly winked at him, "Have your tea and I'll come back with something to eat. Do you feel up to it?"

"Not sure…suppose I should eat something. It has been awhile since my last meal."

"Well, I can't promise our food is any better than at the Front…"

She walked away and Foyle felt a sudden determination to get well. He wanted her to see him at his best, not just to know him like this in a hospital bed. It had become a matter of pride. So determined did he feel that after a moment or two he tried to sit up. The pain that shot through him made him cry out.

"What _are_ you doing?" Nurse Devereaux said sharply, setting down her tray with a clatter.

Foyle sank back, gasping, face going white. She took hold of him, helping to ease him back against the pillow. "Easy, now."

"Just…wanted to…sit up," Foyle puffed, drawing painful breaths. He'd forgotten about the ribs.

"Well, before you go undoing all of Doctor's work, let _me_ help you." She eased him efficiently into a propped up sitting position, looking down at him with some exasperation.

"Are you going to be a troublesome patient, Corporal Foyle?" There was a glint of humour in her eyes.

Foyle sighed and met her look with one of mock seriousness, "Do you know, Nurse Devereaux, I rather think I am."

Thus began a subtle friendship. The first few days she helped him with everything, weak as he was. She attended his wounds, helped him shave when the itchy stubble became too much, washed his hair and dressed him in fresh bed clothes. He was entirely in her hands, and this knowledge both thrilled and perturbed him. He had never been so closely attended to, least of all by a woman. It really began with their names, however. Foyle had asked her, half shyly, when she was changing his bandage.

"Matron prefers us not to tell the men our Christian names…" she smiled warmly at him, eyes twinkling, "but if you promise not to tell…"

"It will be our secret," Foyle assured her eagerly.

"Caroline."

He repeated her name, letting it whisper across his lips. "Beautiful."

She smiled, pleased. "Just don't let anyone hear you."

"The chaps call me Chris."

She nodded, "Short for Christopher?" Letting her fingertips brush the back of his arm gently, moving away from the now finished bandage, she added quietly, "Very glad to make your acquaintance…"

Foyle wondered if he had ever been so happy. It was odd, considering he was in hospital, but each time he went to sleep he prayed to God that he would wake so as to see her again.

Under Nurse Devereaux's ministrations, Foyle healed steadily. Within a week he was moved to an adjoining recuperation wing, but she was still there to attend to him. Foyle fancied that she brightened in his company, and it was only in brief, unguarded moments that he saw the lingering sadness. She went out of her way to bring him cups of tea and reading material; she was there to usher in his mother when she came to visit him when he was more on the mend. There grew between them a perceptible intimacy, one that went beyond nurse and patient, which found them talking at both great length and detail about their lives. An unbridled curiosity existed in them both and Foyle felt the inner tensions that had closed off so much of himself fall away.

When after a while Foyle was well enough to walk about the gardens, Nurse Devereaux would try to find time to accompany him, helping him and letting him lean on her arm. He learned that she _was_ married — to Sir Charles Devereaux, MP, no less. But he did not back away from their friendship or feel intimidated. He followed her lead, and understood the precariousness of the moments that passed between them. Deep down though, Foyle felt more affection than he knew was proper, and he fought it back with all the propriety he could muster.

However, when he began to sense that _Sir Charles_ was the cause of her hidden sadness, he asked her carefully, ready to try and help. He felt there was nothing he would not do for her; seeing her un-happy was awful for him. She had been upset with him at first, feeling challenged on her loyalty. Foyle, as an honourable man, apologised immediately, realising he had overstepped the mark and offended her.

"It was wrong of me to ask such a personal question, Nurse Devereaux," he said, reverting back to her position rather than use her given name. He felt both awkward and ashamed at having caused her further anguish. "Would you like me to go?"

Her response however, only gave him a hope he had never expected to entertain. Shaking her head she put a hand on his arm and said quietly, "No, I'm sorry. I just felt disloyal… but we aren't doing anything wrong, and you only asked because you wanted to help. I can see that."

Taking a deep breath she added even more quietly, as if admitting to herself: "I don't want you to go."

"I should hate to go," Foyle said slowly. "I only wish I could help you somehow, Caroline."

"You _do_," she said firmly, squeezing his arm, "more than you know."

Their eyes met, both cool blue and electric. Foyle felt more alive that he had ever done, and took her hand gently. It seemed from there they could not turn back. The subtle disclosure had been spoken and a line that had once been so clear became blurred. They were both running headlong towards a path they knew not the destination of.

* * *

><p><strong>August 1945<strong>

Taking a few gulps of sea air, Foyle squared his shoulders and made a decision. The long ago willingness to do anything for her rose up, and he was now determined to help her son. Checking his wristwatch, he moved quickly back towards the car parked on the Parade above. He would try to catch James Devereaux's solicitor before the office closed for the day. He might just be able to if he hurried.

Thinking fast, Foyle dived into a phone box and asked the operator for the number. He was put through to a clerk and Foyle explained succinctly his position and his desire to meet with Mr Alan Deakin, LLB.

The clerk assured him he could have a brief meeting that afternoon, and Foyle rang off with the promise to be there soon. He realised he might be taking a risk, but he felt it was worth it — he had to know what could be done for Devereaux.

Arriving sometime later in Church Street, Foyle parked and made his way quickly down the steps to the law offices. They had obviously been recently re-housed, as the state of the place was still in a "moving in" stage. Here too, the offices were much the same as the those at the new police station: all glass and window blinds. Deakin's office was neat and tidy, however. As he was shown in by the clerk, Foyle noticed right away the eye patch and limp of the man before him. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit and looked aged beyond his years by his injuries.

"Hallo," Deakin said smiling and leaning heavily on his cane, "have you been offered tea?"

"No, thank you, I won't."

"Well," continued Deakin briskly, moving back behind his desk, "let's get straight to the point. You want to talk to me about my client, James Devereaux."

Foyle pulled at the knees of his trousers and sat down opposite the solicitor. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into what he had planned to say. It went against many of his principles to be deliberately misleading, but he could not stop in this endeavour now he had begun.

"Well, not so much about him as the unit he belonged to in Germany."

"The British Free Corps."

"That's right." Foyle bit his lip.

"How much do you know about them?"

Again Foyle took a steadying breath, "Well, not as much as…_we'd_ like to…which is why meeting with your client could be enormously helpful. How much do you know about them?" He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Deakin looked at him carefully, weighing his words. "It was just a propaganda exercise in essence, wasn't it? Send a band of misfits from the POW camps to fight the Russians in German uniforms with Union Jacks…One of Hitler's crazier ideas."

"My client was picked up in Dresden — or what was left of it. He was missing, believed dead for a few months before the Russians handed him over."

Deakin paused and drew a deep breath, "Look, I may as well tell you now: it's almost certain he'll hang. We're talking about traitors, Mr Foyle. They are getting what they deserve. I'd think you'd agree?"

"Well, there are _those_," Foyle said, making an obscure emphasis to indicate he was not alone in this mission, "who think a series of trials — treason trials — could be counter-productive at the moment."

"And you've been asked to look into it?" Deakin surmised quickly. "Well, I suppose I can try to arrange a meeting, but I should warn you now, it may be a complete waste of time. He refuses to talk to me. Not a word."

Foyle watched the other man shrug, and hearing the slight bitterness in his voice, wondered if he felt this reaction of his client was somehow evidence of his own shortcomings. Equally, it could be that he had also made up his mind about Devereaux, like many would, before even entering into conversation with his client. Making a gesture towards Deakin with his hand, opening up this possibility, he said slowly, "Perhaps he feels you've given up on him?"

Deakin replied quickly, "He's given up on himself — it's almost as if he _wants_ to die."

Foyle cringed inwardly but kept his gaze level. Deakin placed his palms on the desk, pushing himself up and out of his chair with some effort, "Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of the police or the intelligence services. I'll see what I can do."

Foyle rose and shook the man's hand. "Thank you. I'll be back tomorrow."

As he turned to go, Deakin called after him, "He _did_ join the Nazis, Mr Foyle, he's admitted to it."

Saying nothing, Foyle looked at him. He did not dislike Deakin — in fact, he saw him as a man with a good deal of fairness and level headed reasoning. It made his deception all the more difficult. _But even a fair man can be sorely tried_, Foyle reasoned. Especially one wounded in action, fighting for his King and country and suddenly finding himself defending a potential traitor.

Deakin added, "And for what it is worth, Mr Foyle, I would try to defend him if he'd let me, but he won't. There is really nothing more to it."

Chewing at his cheek, Foyle gave a small nod as if to say, _we'll see_.

"Right."

He left the office, heart feeling heavy. In the car, he sat for a moment thinking, a forefinger resting over his top lip, tapping slightly. He felt uncomfortable with the situation and his own part in the fabrication, but it was, for the moment, necessary. Sighing, Foyle heard the words of the solicitor racing through his brain. _Why would James want to die? And die a traitor, no less? What happened to him?_

Shaking his head sadly, he started the car and pulled away slowly. The newspaper glared up at him from the passenger seat and Foyle bit his lip. _Well, I won't give up on you…we'll sort this out, one way or another,_ Foyle promised silently.

Gripping the wheel tighter he felt his heart slip further down: what to tell Sam?

At Steep Lane he dragged his feet, steeling himself for what was inevitable. He could not keep it from Sam — she would notice something was up right away, and he had learnt from their shared past that keeping her out never solved anything. Though he wanted to build walls and deal with this alone, he knew he could not. The worst of it was that he felt guilty: not merely for letting Deakin think things that were not strictly true, but for involving himself in a case because of something that bound him still.

He had told Sam everything before they married — tried to explain his past and the women he had loved and lost. She had not judged him, but had merely taken it in stride, loving him all the more for the burdens he had carried silently for so long. However, he conceded now this would be the _last_ thing she'd expect him to come home with. She would have every right to tell him not to become involved — he had a new family to look after; she would even have every right to feel jealous. Foyle knew however, that Sam would understand. She was so good like that; sensible with a wealth of understanding in all matters of the range of his emotions. _I'm so lucky to have her on my side…_

Yet, the guilt remained. It was perhaps an old feeling resurfacing after twenty-seven years, but it felt fresh and new, ripping at his insides. He felt somehow disloyal, no matter how much he reasoned that Sam would not be against him in this. He let himself in, sighing deeply.

"Darling?" Sam called.

Foyle felt a sudden unbidden emotion rising in his throat.

"You've been an absolute _age_. Good thing we _aren't_ having a dinner party…"

He heard her coming through the lounge.

"There I was, thinking you'd been landed with a case last minute, and you couldn't retire after all." She came into the hall, seeking him out.

Wearing a beautiful dress and her hair done up, Foyle felt a pang of remorse, recognising the effort she'd gone to. _And I'm about to spoil what was meant to be a celebratory evening…_

"But here you are! Now, I've put little Miss to bed, she wouldn't settle at first, but here's hoping she stays asleep for a few more hours." Sam kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm. "We can…" she broke off. "What is it?"

Foyle's words were lost somewhere in his chest, so he instead handed her the newspaper. Sam shot him a concerned glance before turning her attention to the article. She read it through then held the paper close to her face, nose nearly touching it, staring wide-eyed at the photograph.

"Gracious…it's uncanny, he looks just like…" She looked up. "_Devereaux_? Oh my darling, is this…?"

Foyle only nodded and fell into Sam's open arms. The words came unstuck and he told her about his meeting with Deakin, his worry that James might hang, and his decision to try to do something about it.

"But how…you've retired? Haven't you?"

"Deakin doesn't know that…yet…"

"Oh Christopher…" Sam looked at him with concern. With a soft sigh, she added, "Rotten timing."

"I'm terrified, Sam…" Foyle admitted, hanging his head. "I'm to see him tomorrow…what if there is _nothing_ I can do…I'd have seen him…met him…and lost him all just like that…"

"Of _course_ you can do something. I believe if _anyone_ could help James Devereaux, it would be you," Sam said firmly, her faith in Foyle's abilities unshaken and loyal as ever.

Foyle sniffed and touched her cheek gently, eyes grateful, "Sweet wife." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I only hope you're right…"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**August 1945**

The metallic clang of the door behind them made him shudder. He was not unused to prisons, but today he felt the dreariness and menace of the place.

"Gentleman to see Prisoner 484," the guard called out.

Foyle swallowed hard, feeling nervous. He nodded to Deakin who sat down to wait, and followed the guard through the large door into a corridor. Once inside the visiting room, the guard locked him in and went to sit down at a table, lighting a foul smelling cigarette and opening a paper. Foyle stared at the young man beside the barred window, breath catching. His face was upturned towards the light, as if he were thirstily drinking it in. His dark hair was thinning and he stood with his hands behind his back, taking no notice of Foyle.

"Hallo," Foyle said, moving a step further into the room. His voice sounded strange and hollow.

The young man turned to look at him; his keen, dark eyes, smudged with weariness, took in the older man with a glance, and without a word he turned back to the window with a non-committal face.

"The name's Foyle. Did they tell you who I am?"

James Devereaux remained silent, seemingly ignoring Foyle's presence.

"They tell me you were, um, reluctant to see me…thank you for agreeing anyway." Foyle gave a small smile.

Devereaux watched him from the corner of his eye and said half impatiently, "Anything to get out of my cell." He gave Foyle an equally small smile, tight and unrelenting.

"Ah, I see." Foyle took another step closer, recognising the battle he was facing with this young man. "They tell you why I'm here?"

"They said you were a policeman who wanted to know about the British Free Corps."

_Just think of him as another man, someone you might be interrogating, a suspect who can help you find the truth of the matter…he's just another man to cross your path…_ Foyle put his weight on one leg, shifting.

"That's about the strength of it."

He looked down, thinking perhaps changing his vantage point might seem less intimidating. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Devereaux shrugged as if amused anyone would ask such a thing of him and returned his gaze to the window.

Foyle placed his hat on the table and sat down, lacing his fingers together to keep them from shaking. "What can you tell me?"

He looked keenly at the other man, but Devereaux said nothing. Shifting in his chair, Foyle tried again, "I can understand why you wouldn't want to talk about it…it isn't a very pleasant subject after all. But you _have_ agreed to see me." He fought a slight impatience that was collecting in the pit of his stomach.

"I don't have anything to read, the people here aren't very chatty, and I don't get many visitors…" He flashed Foyle an ironic smile.

_He's enjoying this game…_ "Right…Er, no family?"

"I don't want to see my family," Devereaux said sharply.

"And why would that be?"

A door slammed behind them somewhere and Foyle's nerves gave a leap. Devereaux worked his jaw, the vein in his neck throbbing. The young man was agitated, but Foyle dared himself to press on.

"Listen, there is an understanding why various people are or have become Nazi sympathisers. In your case — in the case of the British Free Corps, it seems important to establish to what extent that sympathy is genuine or to what extent coercion has been involved."

Pausing for breath, Foyle went on, "Why did you join? Are you sorry the Germans lost or that Hitler's dead? Did you want them to win?"

Devereaux shrugged, "I don't care who won."

"Is that really so?"

"Thousands of people dead, everywhere burnt out, bombed, all rubble…what difference does it make?" He shook his head as if Foyle had asked a stupid question.

"Is this Dresden you're talking about? I understand you were there."

He gave his tight smile again, "I was in a lot of places."

"Dunkirk as well I gather, and served with distinction according to your men."

Deakin had given Foyle all the young man's files to read before coming to the prison that morning. It showed an exemplary service, albeit short, considering he was taken prisoner in the early stages of the war.

As the young man still said nothing, Foyle felt his impatience rising. He moved his hand in a sudden movement, trying to engage with him. "So it is very difficult for someone like me to understand why you'd find yourself in this position and why you would choose to die in such a _useless_ way." There was a hint of annoyance on the edge of his voice and Foyle took a deep breath to steady himself.

Devereaux looked at him sharply, "What makes you think it is useless?"

Looking at him perplexedly, Foyle bit his lip. _I've pushed too hard…_

Devereaux confirmed this thought when he said coldly, "I was told you wished to ask me about the British Free Corps, but all you've done is ask about me. I don't know you. I don't need to talk to you. Please just go away."

Foyle's heart sank and he tilted his head from one side to another as if to say, _Yes, well…_

He stood and gave James Devereaux one last look, memorising his features. Chewing his cheek, he followed the guard back to the waiting area, doing his best not to feel defeated.

Deakin looked up, "So, did you get the information you wanted?"

Instead of answering him, Foyle frowned and looked over his shoulder, "Um, any idea what happened to him in Dresden?"

"No."

"Did you ask?" There was still a hint of impatience in Foyle's words.

Deakin rose with some effort and said shrewdly, "No, I didn't think it was any of my business. Or yours."

Foyle became desperate; he seemed to be hitting brick walls and it suddenly felt as if they were closing in. It was now or never; if he was going to convince Deakin, he would had to do it now. Remembering the man's earnestness the previous afternoon of assuring Foyle he would represent Devereaux if given half the chance, he decided to play on that.

"Mr Deakin, forgive me for asking, but are these war injuries?"

"Yes, they are."

"Then I would understand your difficulty in representing somebody on these sorts of charges." Foyle took a deep breath and pushed on, "He did speak to me — not much it's true — but enough that I can tell you, that whatever else he may be, he is _not_ a Nazi sympathiser, _nor_ is he guilty of treason."

Deakin looked at Foyle with some surprise.

"I'd hoped to, er, persuade you not to assume his guilt or abandon him to hang. Um, there are a couple of things I could do to help," Foyle was fishing now, and he himself heard the underlying emotion in his voice.

He cleared his throat, "If you'd accept the offer I would be pleased to help."

The guard opened the gate before them, the metallic clanging covering his words. They stepped through, Deakin clearly thinking about what Foyle had said. When he looked up, his one good eye stared carefully at the other man, sizing Foyle up and not finding him wanting. He respected the policeman's experience and understood that if anything were to be done for James Devereaux, Foyle would be one to help the process.

"Yes, all right. What do you want me to do?"

"I think speaking to his family might be the first thing."

"I will arrange it."

He gave Foyle a smile that was laced with curiosity. "There's more to you than meets the eye, I think, Mr Foyle."

Foyle twitched his lips, "Well, I could say the same about you. Together, Mr Deakin, we might just have a case to put forward."

Foyle dropped Deakin off at the law offices and drove on. He skirted around the Old Town and went up to the coast road, wanting to get away for a bit. Halfway along the coast road above Hastings he stopped, pulling over to a spot where the cliff dropped down to the undulating waves. He got out and leaned against the bonnet, hands thrust in his pockets, thinking hard.

_In a way, the worst is over…we've met and I know now what we're up against. He's not a Nazi, thank God, and whatever he's hiding can't stay hidden forever…He didn't like me mentioning his family, certainly…see what I can get out of his fa-…out of Sir Charles tomorrow…the key lies there I should think…_

Foyle switched off his policeman's brain for half a second and closed his eyes against the inner turmoil that had been boiling in his gut all morning. _Oh God…_ Foyle raised a hand to his face, feeling it crumple…_he's a magnificent boy. Oh Caroline, your darling boy…he's alive and I'm going to look after him, I swear…_

* * *

><p><strong>May 1917<strong>

On a wet morning, after nearly four weeks of slow but steady recuperation and convalescing, a Brigadier Wilson came to see Foyle. The Brigadier was brought in to the conservatory-cum-recreation room where Foyle was sat playing chess with another soldier. He had recently learnt the game, but the other man was only just beating him, Foyle holding his own well.

Dressed in their flannel "hospital blues", red ties against the white inner lining of the open collared jackets loudly proclaiming _'convalescence,'_ the men looked small and diminished against the large potted plants and wicker furniture. They were at a particularly tricky stalemate when the orderly announced the Brigadier. Both men stood up at once.

The over large blue hospital uniform hung on Foyle, making him look even smaller. The trousers had been turned up severely, and sleeves pushed back from his wrists. Foyle felt slightly ridiculous standing opposite the Brigadier in his finely pressed uniform, medals gleaming on his chest in the late morning light.

"Ah, there you are, Corporal Foyle. Might I have a word?"

"Certainly, Brigadier."

The older man moved with authority as if he owned the place, leading them down a long corridor, his heels sounding sharply against the polished floor.

"In here," the Brigadier said, holding open the door to a makeshift office. "Doctor's given me the run of his office today. Lots of things to do."

Foyle felt suddenly wary. _Am **I** on this list of things to do?_

"How are you?"

If Foyle was surprised by the question he did not show it, but said merely, "Mending well, sir, so they tell me."

"Yes, yes, good." The Brigadier shot him a sickly smile from underneath a rather large moustache, "Here's the thing, Foyle — we're damned short of reliable men at the moment and your name came up when I asked around."

Foyle said nothing, only swallowed hard. He knew the day would eventually come that he would have to go back, but he hated the idea of it happening quite so soon. He didn't want to leave just yet…didn't want to think about being away from Caroline.

"We're having a bit of a reshuffle — as you know Arras left us in rather a spot."

Foyle gritted his teeth. _Indeed, when most of one's regiment is put out of action, that would be a 'spot'…_ The news of the fate of his friends and comrades were still trickling in. He disliked this sugar coating the Brass were continually handing out — he wished they would be straight and say what they meant. _We lost too many men and now we're left looking for those to fill their boots… whoever they may be…_

"We are combining A and B companies. Probably be sent to Belgium by the looks of things. Anyway," here the Brigadier smiled again, "I'm promoting you, Foyle. You'll be sent to officer training for a month or so. It's here in Brighton, so you'll be able to see your family — Hastings, isn't it?" He shuffled some papers in front of him, looking down.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. When do I begin?"

"Oh, when you're properly mended. Doctor will sign you off when you're fit and able and you will join the others at Officer training. We'll get you all the information you need beforehand."

"Thank you, sir," Foyle said again, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

"I have no doubt you'll lead your men just fine, Foyle." He waved the papers, "Commendable record thus far and aptitude, I see."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

The Brigadier nodded and went back to his stack of papers indicating the meeting was over.

Foyle saluted and took his leave, returning slowly to the conservatory and his chess game. With a sigh of relief he thought, _another month here, near to Caroline!_

She came into the ward the next day, back on shift. Her eyes sought him immediately though she went on with her duties at the opposite end of the room. Foyle waited patiently, knowing she would soon make her way to him. Her eyes lit up as she neared him, and he sat up straighter.

"Corporal Foyle," she began, smiling down at him. "How's the arm doing? Any more stiffness today?"

She bent over him to have a look and lowered her voice, "You will give the game away looking so pleased, Chris."

He fought down the grin on his face, trying to be serious. "Walk with me later?"

"I will try."

"It's stopped raining at last — a beautiful May day."

"Yes, I can _see_ that," she twinkled at him, "I promise to try."

She straightened, "It all seems to be in order, Corporal. You are mending splendidly."

He let his grin escape, a bubble of laugher at his lips.

In the early afternoon she was back, bringing him a heavy robe. "Put this on for your walk, Corporal Foyle. I can't allow you to catch cold."

"Thank you, Nurse."

Her fingers rested on his shoulders momentarily before holding out her arm for him to lean on. He no longer needed as much help, as he did not tire as easily any more, but it allowed them to be close. The hospital had a beautifully cultivated garden left over from before the war. They had walked around it many times, but today felt somehow altogether different. Above them the seagulls swooped and called out; they might have been on holiday at the seaside.

"The Brigadier came to see me," Foyle began. "I'm being promoted and sent to Officer training. It's here in Brighton — I will be here for another four or five weeks, can you believe such luck?" He sounded very proud, as if he had organised it all himself.

She laughed and her eyes shone. "Five more weeks! Where will you stay? Here?"

"No, I can have a billet at the school they are using — only a tent, mind — or I can stay at home with my parents. I'll probably try to divide the time to cut down on travelling back and forth."

They were behind a hideously large hydrangea, and it offered slight protection from the wind as well as privacy. He took her hand, "And I hope, Caroline, that I shall be permitted to see you?"

She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes. He saw a sudden hesitation spring into her face.

He bowed his head, "I know I shouldn't ask. I'm sorry."

She surprised him by touching his cheek and lifting his chin so he looked at her. "Chris, I want to see you, but…"

He turned his head so that his cheek was against her hand. "I understand. Believe me I do. I would never ask you for more than you could give."

He took a half step away and turned, chewing his lip as he had not done in many weeks. Foyle was normally a decisive man, but he felt that he had no right to expect anything from a married woman, however much it pained him.

Her eyes became bright and she looked at him with mixed gratefulness and disbelief, as if she had never known such decency in men. In a sudden burst of frustration, she hissed, "Damn Charles! Damn his money and his ancient family! Damn his rotten, ugly house! Damn, damn, damn…" she dissolved into silent sobs.

Foyle watched her, his heart yelling in a persistent voice inside him to go to her. He seemed frozen however, unsure of what she would want him to do. "Oh Caroline…"

As if in answer to the unspoken question of what should be done, she closed the gap he had created and kissed him fully on the lips. It was a quick, light kiss, and they both seemed startled by it. Pulling away and crossing her arms to hug herself tightly, she shook her head. Foyle stared at her, feeling both pleased and confused.

"I hate him," she whispered fiercely, "I hate him for making my life miserable, for keeping me from you…for wielding his lordly force over everything…letting nothing be my own…"

It was the first time she had spoken to him like this about Sir Charles and he remained quiet, watching her face. Even though she had elected to tell him, Foyle felt he was prying. Something must have happened between her and Sir Charles — or perhaps she had just had enough.

"I am only happy when he is away, which thankfully has been a lot since things started becoming worse in France." Her face crumpled, "Oh isn't that awful of me to say? Do forgive me, Chris…" she was crying again, and he put out a hand to catch hers. He squeezed it tightly.

"And I'm happy when I'm with you, of course," she added, choking back a small sob. "I shouldn't be…I'm married, but oh Chris…I can't help it…"

Foyle looked at her gravely and silently, the time for his words passing with each moment. What could he say to her? What could he offer her — the wife of a man who had everything…?

"I'm terrible, I know…and I've dragged you into it. I'm sorry."

"You are wonderful in every way," he said quietly, the force of his words resonating in the low timbre of his voice. "I would do anything to help you or make you happy, Caroline, but I cannot do so unless we embark on this together."

His meaning was clear to her, and in addition to his seriousness, it made her pull up sharply; it seemed that she remembered herself. She patted her face dry with a handkerchief and straightened her shoulders. Foyle was leaving the decision to her, being in no position to do otherwise. She recognised this, was grateful to him for it, and gave him only the slightest nod to indicate she understood.

"We should get back," she said finally.

He watched her walk past the hydrangeas, and Foyle wondered if he hadn't just let her slip through his fingers. He cursed the stifling code of honour and decency of society, and very nearly rushed after her to crush her lips with his own. His hands balled into fists and he shook his head, furious with himself and with the world.

As it was, the moment Foyle had been dreading arrived: the Doctor, annoyingly cheerful as ever, advised him he was well enough to return to his duties. Inspecting the wound in his arm carefully, the Doctor whistled with an impressed, "I doubt you'll even have a scar to show, my boy, he did a fine job here."

Foyle wasn't entirely sure if he meant the field doctor or the German who had shot him.

"Of course, you have had the prettiest nurses looking after you, and that helps, eh?" He laughed and shook Foyle's hand. "God speed, Corporal Foyle."

Foyle could not argue with that, _prettiest nurse indeed_… He and Caroline had been so careful with their friendship; even though they had become close, and they had exchanged more than what was proper in the garden, Foyle still wasn't sure what his leaving would mean. They hadn't spoken of what had occurred that day, and Foyle often felt she avoided mention of it on purpose.

She came to find him on that last day as soon as she could, when Matron left on her rounds. He was sitting on the edge of his bed dressed in a freshly pressed uniform. He fiddled with his hat in his hands in agitation, searching her eyes for any hint of how to proceed. There was nothing there to indicate what he should do — she was as confused as he was, and he felt at a loss.

"I don't want this to be the end, Caroline," Foyle said gravely under his breath.

She looked over her shoulder warily, watching for Matron's return. "Neither do I, Chris, truly."

"Meet me in Hastings then — on Friday…at the Royal Hotel. We'll have lunch and finish talking this through. No one will recognise us."

Shaking her head, she whispered back fervently, "It's too risky."

"Please, Caroline. I can't think of anything else to suggest."

"I know." She dithered, throwing another glance towards the door before looking back at him hopelessly.

"Say you'll come."

"I…" she bit her lip.

"I hate goodbyes — I don't want to say goodbye to you like this."

Her eyes filled and she looked right into his face. He understood her dilemma; her loyalty and what was considered _not done_. But he wanted her to come to him all the same. How could he explain to her that she had come to mean everything to him? That she alone stood like a beacon of normality in a world that had been turned on its head. That she was the beautiful, clever woman that had touched his heart and given him the strength to continue on.

A tear slipped past her lashes, and he reached out to her, distressed to see her upset.

The door at the far end creaked.

"I must go," she hissed, moving away quickly.

"I'll be there at one o'clock," he said, and she bobbed her head to show she had heard him.

_Now only if she will come…_ Foyle heaved a terrible sigh and stood, leaving behind something he had never expected to find, and desperately wanting to hold on to it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** By the time 1917 rolled around, each division was asked on a _monthly_ basis for the names of _fifty_ men from the ranks that might be suitable for officer training...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**August 1945**

Foyle drove them towards the large estate, mind full of the past. He blinked when Deakin broke the silence by saying, "In answer to your earlier question, Mr Foyle, I was with Monty — 8th Army in Tunsia, May 1943."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Foyle said quietly.

"I'm not asking for sympathy," Deakin replied simply. "A lot of my friends were killed. I was invalided home and eventually returned to the bar. Wasn't much else I could do really."

Foyle nodded, respecting the man further. He liked the younger man's straightforward attitude, and the way he spoke in facts. Foyle suspected he was a very good solicitor when it came down to it. As they rounded a bend, the house appeared at the top of the long drive and his breath caught. This had once been _her_ home…

He parked carefully in amongst the many cars that stood before the house. Looking up at it as they stepped out, he allowed himself to be impressed. Framed against a summer's blue sky, the marbled porticoes and colonnades made him feel as if he were in the Mediterranean. He smiled inwardly for a moment, glancing over at the cars that stood in the drive, thinking Sam would have given her left arm to drive the fiery red Lagonda. They were ushered in by a dour looking man with a slight stoop. He took the men's hats and showed them into a bright and somewhat cluttered drawing room.

Foyle never quite understood why the gentry's reception rooms always had a whiff of a museum about them, showing off the best paintings and sculptures. Over the mantlepiece stood a set of fine Venetian landscapes that even an amateur such as himself could see were worth a fortune. They were met by Sir Charles Devereaux and his second wife, Jane, a rather simple and kind looking woman. Foyle eyed Sir Charles carefully, trying not to dislike him instantly and failing. He was tall and broad with white hair, and held himself upright in a severe fashion. He also had a permanent look of disgust on his face, and Foyle felt a moment's intimidation. _Here is a man who could make trouble…_

They all sat and Sir Charles began: "James won't speak to me. Won't speak to any of us. But you've seen him?"

"I have."

"And?"

Foyle twitched his lips, not used to such a demanding voice.

His wife put in earnestly, as if to cover up her husband's abruptness, "Is there anything that can give us hope?"

To show he was still leading the conversation, Sir Charles fired another question at Foyle, "Deakin says you believe he may be innocent."

"That's right," Foyle replied somewhat coldly, disliking both the man's tone and his use of _'may be innocent.'_

Foyle thought grimly, _this is his son he's talking about…_

"Do you think you can really find a way through this?" Sir Charles asked sceptically.

"Well," Foyle began, grasping his hands in his lap to avoid balling them into fists. "I'm not at all sure. I've just seen him the once."

He added, his voice cold once more, "But it is, er, certainly worth the attempt."

Jane gave Sir Charles a wifely look, warning him to keep his temper and behave. Foyle noticed and cleared his throat, trying to ease the annoyance that was so obviously present in his tone. He never did have any patience for men like Sir Charles to begin with…

Sir Charles gave a little cough. "What did he tell you?" His tone was less demanding now and his wife settled back in her chair ever so slightly.

"Very little, but it does seem to me that there is more to the situation that he is allowing us to know."

Drumming his fingers on his knees, Sir Charles thought about what Foyle had said. After a pause he said to his wife, "Jane, I'll talk to Mr Foyle alone if you don't mind. Why don't you show Deakin the grounds?" He stood up, giving no room for dispute.

Jane, while surprised, nodded in agreement and showed Deakin out.

Foyle stood politely as the lady of the house left the room. Sir Charles nodded to him, giving him leave to sit. He did not do so himself however, but remained standing, hands in his pockets, towering somewhat over Foyle.

"James was never the same after his mother died," he began, "he was only eight. Maybe that's what this is all about."

Foyle cringed inwardly, a pang going through him. He crossed his legs and looked at Sir Charles, waiting for him to go on.

"She was the only one he confided in, you see. I loved Caroline more than anyone in the world — she was everything to me; but James was more her son than mine and after she died he drifted away."

Foyle looked elsewhere lest his face give him away. He clamped his teeth severely around his lip. He would have to move the conversation away from her… He cleared his throat, "Any ever mention or sympathy with right wing causes—"

"No," Sir Charles interrupted him sharply, "He was a model student at both Eton and Sandhurst. A credit to his regiment."

Foyle looked at him levelly. _You'll give me his credentials but you won't stand up for him and profess his innocence…_

"When he was captured at Dunkirk I thought I'd lost him," Sir Charles went on. He quirked his lips into a disappointed sneer, "And now I wish I almost had."

Giving him a narrow, searching look, Foyle said nothing, feeling if he were to open his mouth now, there would be no telling what he might say.

"We're one of the oldest families in England and we have a long history of service to this country." Sir Charles squared his shoulders and rattled off a ream of contributions from his forebears.

Foyle chose to ignore him, pressing on with the matter at hand, "This unit, the British Free Corps—"

He was interrupted again. "They're disgusting." Sir Charles gave a shudder, "They're nothing."

"What do you think drove James to join it?" Foyle said, still hoping for any information he could get.

"He was a prisoner of war; he had been for three years. No doubt starving and they provided an alternative — he didn't know what he was doing."

"Well, I would have thought that would have been his defence—"

"Of course it's his defence!"

Foyle was becoming increasingly impatient at being interrupted. He said dryly, "He's not using it."

"He's ashamed of himself."

"Doesn't appear so."

The older man paused, looking out the window at the view beyond. "He's destroying me; this house, this land, my name; everything I've ever stood for. He wants to bring it all crashing down."

There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sounds of nature: a buzzing bee against the window pane; horses neighing from the stable block. Foyle looked at the man before him carefully, almost staring, trying to understand him and why James would want to destroy his father.

Sir Charles's eyes suddenly snapped back to him, narrowing. "Mr Foyle, you told Deakin you could help us, but all you've done so far is ask a load of questions. Why _exactly_ are you here?"

There was a dangerous edge to the man's voice, and if Foyle had been a lesser man, he would have quailed. As it was, Foyle stood, indicating their meeting was over. He would not be pushed around by this man. "I am trying to help your son, Sir Charles," he said shortly, "thank you for your time."

He let himself out of the room, face thunderous.

In the large foyer he paused and the dour man brought his hat.

"What can you tell me about James, Mr — er?" Foyle asked, knowing staff to be more reliable for answering questions.

"Simmons, sir."

"Mr Simmons." Foyle nodded, encouraging the man to go on.

"Master James, sir? Oh well he was a delightful lad, to be sure."

"Very much the apple of his mother's eye, I gather."

"That he was, sir. He was never the same after she died, God bless her soul."

"Yes…" Foyle tapped his hand against his pocket in agitation, wishing he knew what exactly it was he was looking for. "The first Mrs Devereaux…what was she like?"

The old man's eyes went soft, "Ah, now she was lovely lady, sir. Very kind and patient. Even though it wasn't easy for her in this place."

"Was she not happy here?"

"Not for me to say, sir." Simmons looked at him carefully, "Was rather a change for her, I suppose. But she and Master James were inseparable, sir — used to play such wild games about the house. Used to make Mrs Ramsey and I jump out of our skins with some of their get ups. Red Indians and the like, sir."

Foyle smiled at him warmly, "Right."

A lump was threatening to form in his throat so he thanked the man and went out into the drive to join the others. He walked slowly across the wide lawn, no doubt being watched by someone in the big house. His skin crawled, and he looked back, now thinking the house looked very like a mausoleum. _Did she feel trapped here? Did he? Not the happiest place to come back to…_

He was glad to reach Jane and Deakin by the edge of the trees.

Deakin smiled at him brightly, "Oh, hallo."

Foyle had the impression that he had been enjoying their little jaunt. Poor man probably didn't see much beyond his desk these days. He nodded at him.

"We were just going to walk up to look at the hide, Mr Foyle. Will you come with us?"

"Certainly." He fell in step beside them. The day was fine and warm, and here in the garden it smelled sweetly of flowers, the air ringing with the trill of birds. There was a peace here, and Foyle imagined _her_ walking here to escape the house. He felt all the more closer to her just now for being where she once had walked. It was a beautiful park and obviously well looked after.

"She had it built for James," Jane continued, leading the way, "he wouldn't go near it after she died though."

Foyle thought she seemed quite subdued, and on a whim he asked her slowly, "I hope you don't mind me asking, Mrs Devereaux, but how well did you get on with him?"

"Oh," she looked surprised, as if she wasn't often asked her opinion, "well, I tried to do what I could. He was fourteen when I married Charles — already away at Eton."

Foyle nodded, "Any interests in politics or that sort of thing?"

"No, not that I can remember." She played with a blade of grass in her hands, "I think he wanted to become a policeman at one point…"

Foyle bit his lip and stared out at the small lake. "Really."

"Yes, well, I don't think he was serious."

"Any other interests?"

"Yes, he used to play the piano — he was actually very good. But there was some business with his teacher; left under a bit of a cloud."

Foyle nodded. Feeling he wasn't making much progress he asked, "Is there anyone else who knew him as a boy or young man?"

"There's our old housekeeper, Mrs Ramsey. She's retired and living near Brighton now."

Foyle nodded again, sighing inwardly. A lot of hasty leg work was needed for this case, and time was running out for James. If he couldn't find a clue as to _why_ the boy had joined the British Free Corps…or _what_ he hoped to gain by allowing his trial to go forth without a defence…Foyle bit his lip.

They ambled back up the slope towards the drive, but his mind was elsewhere — ten steps ahead, planning his next moves carefully as this case warranted. He frowned up at the house, feeling suddenly very tired.

* * *

><p>Sam watched Foyle from across the table, momentarily distracted by the pallor that had come over his face. She understood the importance of this case, indeed felt the desperation with which Foyle was conducting his private investigations, but her worry for her husband could not be quelled by any amount of understanding. Part of her cursed the arrival of this new wrinkle in their lives, while the other reasoned it might well be a final chance for Foyle to come to terms with his past. He had told all her knew so far, and it sounded to Sam that he hadn't nearly enough resources. She had offered to try and help him somehow, but she conceded she wasn't entirely sure how she might.<p>

He was pushing his food around his plate, lost entirely in thought. She hated to disturb him when he was like this, but she couldn't stand the look in his eyes. Lifting Connie and standing, she went to Foyle, putting their child in his arms.

"We love you, my darling, and you know I will do whatever I can to help — but _do_ try to come back to us when there isn't any more that can be done in a day…"

Sam looked at him, feeling pity and concern, hoping he understood. Foyle's lip trembled and he pressed it hastily against Connie's cheek. She burbled, reaching up to grasp at him.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I feel pulled every which way at the moment."

She kissed the top of his head, letting her fingers intertwine with his curls at the base of his neck. "I know that. I just hate to see you in such a state."

Beginning to clear away the table, Sam suggested, "Why not speak to Connie — discussing silly things with her might help." She saw the tension in his body, and hoped taking his mind off things would help to ease it.

Foyle looked at her gratefully, then glanced down at his tiny daughter, still gurgling contentedly up at him. His face broke into the first real smile he'd had in days, "What do you think, my treasure? Is Mummy right?"

She flailed an arm, and he caught her hand gently, pressing her tiny fingers to his lips. "Yes, I think Mummy is right — she always is, you know. Now, tell me, my little one, what have you girls been up to today, eh?"

Connie cooed and kicked her legs, smiling unabashedly at him. "Oh, really? All that?" He tickled her chin.

She gave a little laugh and Foyle bounced her up into his arms and walked with her through to the lounge, "Sounds better than my day…I certainly didn't have any time with Mummy's soft breasts…"

"Christopher Foyle, that is _not_ what I meant by talking silly."

Sam came in behind them and suddenly giggled as Foyle turned and gave her a most mischievous grin. "Well, I was only stating a fact…"

Sam encircled them both with her arms, giving first Connie a kiss and then Foyle. "Day's not over yet, my love…"

"Is it bedtime yet?"

Sam grinned.

When the night had drawn in, covering them with a late summer's dark blue, and Connie had finally settled down to sleep, Sam joined Foyle where he sat on the edge of the bed. In the low light of the bedroom she thought for the first time that he looked almost…_old_. He was certainly weary and she rubbed his shoulders, murmuring love in his ear. He reached up to catch her hand and squeeze it.

"Come to bed, Christopher…"

Foyle turned, following her down onto her back, lips whispering over face and neck, hands delighting the now voluptuous curves motherhood had brought to her body. It was true they had not joined in passionate coupling that often since the baby's arrival, but when they did set out to do so, it was as heady and ardent as ever.

He'd been given the gift of relearning her body now changed from her experience of bringing their daughter into the world. He had both marvelled and enjoyed such subtle changes, and for Sam, she had been made to feel beautiful and loved by his intense attentions.

Foyle grinned against her lips, "Gosh, I do love your bottom." He rolled them over and gave it a slight pinch. She growled in his ear playfully. "And these beauties," he gently touched her breasts, "now much bigger thanks to…"

She gave a slight hiss, "Yes, and more tender…they get enough attention throughout the day, my darling…do you think you might…"

He swallowed her words, kissing her deeply. He murmured, "Might what? Oh you mean find something else to focus my attention on?"

She giggled as his hands tickled her.

"No?" He slipped a hand between them, "What about here then?"

She fairly purred and he grinned, feeling pleased he could still elicit such a sound from his wife.

"I shall be cross with you if you aren't a bit more serious about this, Christopher," she teased, a lusty hunger edging into her voice.

"Oh, I am serious," he grunted throatily, joining and finding the quick of her. "Very. Serious." Punctuating his words with action, Sam smiled at him, closing her eyes, "Jolly good…"

Throwing back her head, she felt relieved she had not lost him beyond the veil of his preoccupying thoughts. Sam bit her lip against a low moan that began in the back of her throat, his weight comforting and arousing against her. She was like clay to his ministrations, moulded and susceptible to his touch.

He reached down, murmuring in her ear with an incredibly soft voice, "I do so love you…" His heart went out to join his words, and they lost themselves in one another as they were wont to do, forgetting the world for a time.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

**August 1945**

On his own now, Foyle followed the guard into the visitor's area.

"Wait here."

Rolling his hat in his hands he hoped fervently that James Devereaux would agree to see him.

The guard came back shortly, "This way, sir."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Foyle followed him, tapping two, thin books against his thigh. Devereaux was brought in and Foyle thought he looked more alert; curious even.

"You're back." He said it more as a statement rather than with any interest.

"Hallo," Foyle said, smiling warmly. "I've brought you some books." He touched the top book, Evelyn Waugh's _Decline and Fall_, with a forefinger.

Devereaux gave a huff of laugher, "Seems appropriate."

Foyle merely looked at him, the blue in his eyes blazing back keenly. He didn't want to play games this time. They exchanged a long glance.

"I like him," Devereaux said quietly.

"So do I."

"And it's not very long; I don't think I should be starting very long books, do you?"

There again was that slight humour, but Foyle did not smile, the weight behind the words altogether unpleasant.

Devereaux gave in, "Thank you. It was very kind of you."

"Not at all." Foyle sat down, wishing the young man would too. _What is it about these Devereaux men that make them want to stand over me all the time?_ He felt his nerves catching at him, but he pushed them away.

"Some things have happened since we last met which may be of interest to you." Foyle wasn't entirely sure much _had_ happened, but he was fishing, and much like he would on the river when playing a trout, tried to get him to take the bait.

Devereaux didn't. He only stared at him, waiting for him to go on.

"I've been to White Friars."

The name of the family estate made the young man look away.

"I met your father."

"Why?" Devereaux looked at Foyle warily. "What has White Friars got to do with the British Free Corps?"

"Ah, well…help to know why you joined, for instance."

Devereaux looked wholly unconvinced, "And you think my _father_ can tell you that?"

"He certainly had an opinion."

The young man's eyes narrowed, "Oh I bet he did." His lip curled as he glared at Foyle.

"I also learned you were close to your mother," Foyle began. He decided there was no point in beating around the bush, he would have to jump in with both feet and see if it got him anywhere. "What would she make of all this, do you think?"

Devereaux stared at him incredulously, alarm registering in his face.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but surely your actions would not have endeared you to her."

At first Devereaux's mouth dropped, but he closed it quickly with a snap. The look in his eyes made Foyle immediately regret his untactful approach. He had underestimated the situation.

Composing his face, Devereaux said coldly and very quietly, "I've had enough of this."

He turned to the door, calling out to the guard in a strong voice that he wanted to go back to his cell.

Foyle's heart sank, but he stood and held out the books to the young man. Devereaux took them grudgingly and without another look at Foyle, left with the guard. When he was gone, Foyle bowed his head cursing himself for obviously hurting the young man.

_I should leave his mother out of this…just because I want to talk about her, doesn't mean it will necessarily help him_. Foyle realised guiltily that while helping James was his main incentive, there was underneath it all a desire to talk about Caroline — to know what others had thought of her. In a way perhaps, to remind himself that she had been real and had lived a life beyond what they had created in 1917.

* * *

><p><strong>May 1917<strong>

Having returned home to Hastings, Foyle was made much of and generally spoiled by his mother. His father, when he was home from his police work, kept clapping him on his good shoulder and looking at him thankfully. In a way, Foyle found it a relief to be at home, away from the constant bustle of the ward, and in the knowledge that whatever may come, he would know how things stood by Friday.

He tried to put his mind to other things; helping his mother where he could and embarking on attacking the garden with his father. But at the back of his mind, he could not help but think of Caroline, and prayed nightly that she would come to their arranged meeting. He spent a lot of time staring out across his father's flower beds, lost in thought and his mother kept an eye on him, not used to him being so reserved.

Being back home also meant he had other duties to see to, ones that were not in any way easy and which he slightly dreaded. On the second day, he dressed himself smartly, combed his hair down flat and went two streets over to the Walsh's terrace house. He felt very guilty; about being the one left alive, as well as not having written after Richard Walsh's death. He reasoned he would have felt even more so however, if he had not come. They had been very kind to him when he had been on leave with Richard, and while Foyle wasn't sure what he would say, he knew showing his face was important.

Mrs Walsh opened the door and stared at him for a moment before smiling kindly at him and drawing him inside. "Christopher, how lovely to see you."

"Good day, Mrs Walsh." He rolled his hat self-consciously between his hands.

She drew him out to the garden and poured him a glass of home-made elderflower cordial.

"I'm sorry I didn't write you and Mr Walsh. I should have done. I was very sorry about Richard."

"You had enough to be worrying about, my lad. I'm just very glad to see you now."

Her look was so warm that Foyle relaxed and felt glad that he had come after all. She asked him about his injury, carefully skirting around too much about the war. He was more content to listen to her easy speculations about village gossip, stories about her son when he was young, and her opinion of certain 'so and so's' in her women's club.

"I've got something for you, in fact," said Mrs Walsh at last, standing up to gather the glasses.

"Oh?" Foyle looked surprised and rose to help carry the tray indoors.

"Dick's fishing things. They've just been lying in the closet and Mr Walsh doesn't want them — prefers golf. Dick would have liked you to have them, Christopher. He so much enjoyed sharing his love of fly fishing with you."

A lump came into his throat and he stammered, "I couldn't…I couldn't possibly…"

"Of course you could," Mrs Walsh said sensibly, "otherwise they shall go to waste."

Foyle followed her into the hall saying softly, "Then I will use them gladly and think of him."

She had tears in her eyes when she turned back to him from the closet, brandishing a cane rod and worn out tackle box. "You do that, my lad. And I'll be glad for knowing his passion is alive and well in you."

She patted his hand, brushed away her tears matter-of-factly, and added, "And I've got a nice bit of cake you can take with you to the river."

Foyle smiled, wondering how she had known he would go there immediately to seek its peace. He could think of no better place than the river at this moment to mull things over.

What he had learned from Walsh came back to him quickly as he stood in the quiet river, each cast stronger and more accurate than the last. The rod soon became comfortable in his hand, and he allowed his mind to wander from the trout to his meeting with Caroline. He wished heartily that Walsh was here beside him so they could talk it through; it was nice to have a mate to talk with about women, and Walsh would have been both positive and practical. He'd always looked on the bright side of things. _What had he said that day? 'After all this is over I'm going to fish everyday no matter what anyone says.' Poor Walsh…_ Sighing sadly, Foyle shook his head. He'd never thought of himself as an emotional man, and he now clucked his tongue against his teeth, feeling impatient with himself. _I'll try and land a beauty for you, Walsh…in more ways than one…_

Friday came quickly and Foyle was at the Royal Hotel at one o'clock like he had promised, feeling almost sick with anxiousness. He could not think beyond the hour — he knew not what he would do if she did not come, and was equally unsure what it would mean if she did. Everything seemed to hinge on this moment. He checked his wristwatch obsessively and at ten past asked the barman for a stiff drink. He would stay all afternoon if he had to. He drank down the despair that was beginning to nip at his heels. _She isn't coming is she?_

He could not blame her. But he felt suddenly very lost — she had been the one keeping him going, after all. At half past, just as he finished his second drink he heard light footsteps approaching. He looked up disbelievingly, not daring to hope.

"Chris."

He closed his eyes and said a quick, _Thank you, God_.

Turning, Foyle stood, straightening the tunic of his uniform. "Hallo, Caroline."

She stepped closer, her smile shy. "Hallo."

Dressed in a wonderful pale pink dress that cascaded down from her shoulders, nipping ever so slightly at her hips, she had on pearl earrings underneath a matching hat, an umbrella and small handbag clutched in one hand. Foyle thought she looked the very image of a lady; beautiful and sophisticated.

He smoothed down his hair with one hand. "You came."

"I didn't want to let you down."

"I'm glad," giving her a warm glance. He gestured with his hand towards the dining room, "Lunch?"

"All right."

She slipped an arm through his and they went through the bar to a long room with small, round tables. It was bright and airy, a summer breeze wafting in over the terrace from the sea.

Over a lunch Foyle could have scarcely afforded on a constable's salary, they spoke of small, trivial things. Foyle felt they were skirting around the true question of, '_how to proceed?_'

He sought her eyes and saw her catch her breath. The look she gave him in return made the back of his neck tingle pleasantly and he smiled softly.

"You want to ask me something," she said, making it sound more like a statement rather than a question.

"I do, but I hardly know where to begin. I should hate to make things difficult for you…" His face became serious, suddenly very aware of the impasse they had reached. It had been weeks in the making and now there was no turning back from it.

She smiled at him, a glimmer in her eyes now "I've never been here before," she said.

"Er, no, me either…" Foyle replied, wondering if she was deliberately turning the conversation.

"Food is nice, even for wartime…"

"Um, yes…it is…"

"I would be curious to know what their rooms are like," she said, smile broadening, "I should think they have a _marvellous_ view of the sea…"

Foyle stared at her a moment, eyes wide and unsure. She looked back openly, face bright with laugher. Then his face broke into a large grin, heart fairly soaring.

"He's away in London all weekend."

"I've got be back Sunday evening for the start of training."

Thus, it was decided.

Dreading the bill, Foyle nevertheless asked the manager for a room with the best sea view. The manager was more than happy to comply, and booked in '_Mr and Mrs Smith_' for two nights. The room itself was lovely, and Caroline went straight to the window, throwing it open.

"Oh it's beautiful, Chris, look!"

Feeling suddenly very nervous and wishing he could have another drink to steady himself, he said slowly, "I think you are beautiful."

He came to put his arms around her, kissing her cheek first, letting his lips ghost over her skin until he found hers.

"Are you sure about this?" He felt two sides of himself battling: he knew it was wrong morally — she a married woman — yet it felt so _right_ to be with her, here at last.

She touched his cheek, "I've never been _more_ sure about anything."

Pressing her against the wall, he fairly overwhelmed her lips, making a bit of a hash of it. He was shaking and sweat sprang out on his forehead. Feeling hesitant and inadequate, he was attempting to make up for it by force. He tried to pull her against him, but he suddenly froze, hissing through clenched teeth. Grabbing at his left arm, he stepped away, face going white.

She was beside him in an instant, "The muscles have cramped I think."

He nodded, breathing heavily.

Carefully removing his fingers, she tried to massage his arm, only causing a sheen of sweat to cover his face as he did his best not to cry out from the pain it caused. "Damn and blast the arm," he grunted.

"I've an idea," Caroline said, leading him towards the en-suite bathroom. Inside the tiled room was a large, claw-footed tub, and she turned on the taps. She helped him off with his jacket and began undoing his tie. "The hot water will ease your muscles a bit."

"It's just my arm…" he felt foolish for the fuss.

She put a light hand on the back of his neck where it met with his shoulders, pressing slightly, "I don't think so."

He winced, "No, perhaps I am a bit tense."

She smiled at him, seeing his nerves and knowing how to alleviate them. Like most of her patients, he had to become used to the idea first — better to get him thinking about things one step at a time. "Hop in the bath and let me rub away this tension. You'll feel much better for it."

"But—"

"Honestly, one would think my patients would listen to me by now…" she said, twinkling at him.

"Oh I see, this is official now…"

"I certainly hope not, Corporal — otherwise all the men will be wanting this special treatment."

"It's Captain now, thank you very much, and yes, I think we'd best keep this particular remedy to ourselves…"

She had divested him of his outer clothing and trousers and she leaned up to kiss him gently, nudging him. "Hop in and do as your told, there's a chap."

Foyle did, blushing slightly as his body was still very much '_at attention_'.

To his surprise, Caroline peeled off her dress, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair. She was now just in a silky chemise, and she added seeing his look, "Save me having to push up my sleeves."

Coming up beside him, she began to slowly massage his arm, letting the warm water help in her endeavour of releasing his tension. Pouring it slowly over his head from a small ewer, she watched the streams run across his broad back, letting her fingers move through his dark hair. Her breath caught, finding him beautiful.

"Why did you become a nurse?" he asked softly as she continued rub his arm.

She hesitated momentarily before saying, "I thought perhaps if I could help ease the pain of the men who came here, the pain inside me might fall away…that it might heal too…"

He looked up at her, reaching out to touch her hand on his arm.

Kissing his upturned face, she added, "And it has — I found you." He smiled shyly.

She moved up to his shoulders and neck, pressing, pushing and rubbing slowly and steadily. He had closed his eyes and she saw the tension leave his body.

"See, that's better," she whispered, putting her lips right next to his ear. "You just have to trust me."

She splashed him and he grinned.

"I do."

"You have nothing to prove, Chris."

"I…I've never…that is…"

She kissed him again, stopping his words. "Trust me."

He nodded, putting out a wet, warm hand to reach for her.

"Wait a moment," she said, divesting herself of her undergarments in a few graceful movements. He stared openly and hungrily, like a man who has been offered a meal after a long day. She stepped into the bath carefully, settling herself against his chest.

"Why hullo," he murmured, smiling, "come to join me?"

"You looked so heavenly I couldn't resist."

He moved her dark hair to one side, trailing kisses down her neck and shoulder. "You are the most wonderful woman. And the best nurse I've ever known."

"And you're a rotten patient, but I love you."

He looked at her, not believing what he had heard.

"Yes, Chris, I love you. I want to be with you."

"Then you've made me the happiest man on earth. I love you, Caroline, more than words can say."

He kissed her then, no longer making a mess of it, but expressing great passion and desire. She took his hands underneath the water, guiding them onto her body, showing him, letting him feel her. His breathing changed and she smiled.

"Why must boys always climb over fences when there is a gate?" she murmured, more to herself.

"Hmm?"

"You men tend to make things harder than they ought to be, I mean…" she slipped her tongue inquisitively along his lips.

Had Foyle but known it, she was trying to help him become that decisive man she knew had once lain within him. He had done what he was told long enough, and now she wanted him to become a man again, controller of his own destiny if just but for a short while. Feeling his confidence growing, she gave him the incentive to find himself. As the fire within him was lit irrefutably, he sat up sharply, sending waves of water over them both and the side of the bath.

"I want to make love to you, Caroline." His words were strong and no longer questioning, and she smiled at him proudly and readily.

She wore her wedding band on a necklace, as many nurses did, and he still wore his identity disks around his neck. Stepping out of the bath, they each removed these anchors of duty and placed them on the wash stand. They were, for now, no longer beholden to anyone but themselves.

Leading her towards the large four poster bed, window still open and letting in a tickling, warm breeze, Foyle lay beside her.

"All my life has been leading towards you, Caroline."

She melted into his arms and together they embarked on such tireless passion, finding within the other what they had never thought possible. She had never imagined that by helping Foyle, she in turn would be helped. Lack of experience on both their parts in the throes of _love_ no longer mattered, and they came together with a resounding collapse of the walls of self-preservation erected from pain. She wept beautiful tears so that Foyle felt incredibly moved, unaware he could feel such things.

She put a hand over his heart, "I am here, and am for evermore within the blood in your veins, and now we will no longer be two but one."

"You and I," said Foyle, voice catching, "are bound undeniably, now and forever."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**August 1945**

A soft cello concerto was burbling out of the wireless when Foyle returned. It was before the news, but he felt late all the same. Putting his head around the door of the lounge he saw Sam sat in his chair, head propped up with one hand, fast asleep. He smiled at the peaceful sight, but did not fail to notice the tired smudges underneath her eyes or the paleness of her cheeks. The music was slightly melancholy and he chewed his lip, feeling just as tired.

Coming to kneel beside her he put one hand on her knee, giving it a shake, the other touching her cheek gently.  
>She woke with a slight jump, eyes staring at him unfocused for a moment. He smiled at her and rubbed his thumb over her cheek.<p>

Sitting up, Sam's eyes suddenly flashed and she frowned. "Where have you _been_?"

Foyle looked taken aback, "Well…"

"I mean _really_, Christopher." She stood up, brushing past him in annoyance.

"Sam?"

"It's all well and good for you to be out to all hours. I don't even get to know _when_ you're coming back. I've not only been dealing with trying to keep you fed and watered, but your daughter as well, wash the never ending nappies and try to restore some order to this place. The pantry is nearly empty, too."

Foyle held up his hands, trying to get a word in, but Sam was under full steam.

"And, Christopher, I've been at the Relief Fund all afternoon; you _know_ what Mrs Thursk is like. Just listening to her rabbit on is tiring. I'm absolutely _spent_. I would have kept your tea warm for you, but it only goes all dry and horrible in the oven, and I will _not_ waste food. At least Connie went to sleep easily. And if you say you want supper now, well, you can jolly well do it yourself."

She had whipped herself up into a temper, and Foyle looked at her, tongue moving over his lips, trying to feel contrite, and not entirely succeeding. She had every right to be annoyed with him, he admitted; left out and left alone. But seeing Sam like this was both terrifying and arousing, and he fought back a sudden boyish grin.

She turned on him again, "And to put the tin lid on it, Christopher, I can't _help_ you. You are off the entire day and I can't do a _thing_. At least when you were waiting for your replacement you came home for lunch. We never see you, and I am so worried all the bally time."

Here was the real crux of the matter and Foyle felt some relief that this was all that was truly bothering her. In addition, he recognised her desire for a row…she almost wanted him to be angry with her so that she might feel justified, rather than guilty, in her anxiousness.

He said quickly, "I've been with Milner."

She threw up her hands, "Oh that's just brilliant — you get him involved. You could land in the most awful trouble and you go dragging him into this."

"What would you suggest then?" Foyle asked, raising his eyebrows. "Do you have access to case files or contacts in other constabularies?"

"No, but that isn't the point!"

"Isn't it?" Foyle gave her a shrewd look. "I know you miss it, but—"

"I miss _you_, and feeling useful. I hate that I can't help you in this. _Especially_ as it is so important."

He was beside her then, turning her shoulders forcefully so that she faced him. Her face was still glowering and he finally allowed his boyish smile to escape. "You are the most useful of anyone. How could I possibly manage without you?"

She still glared, not entirely convinced.

"And I miss you too; don't you think I wish you were there beside me? I need you with me on this Sam, but for now we'll just have to muddle along as we have. And you're right; I should have telephoned."

Softening, Sam nodded, her anger melting away as suddenly as it had flared.

"Now, if you've _quite_ finished," he twitched his lips in amusement, "I would like your opinion on something."

Her interest was peaked. "What is it?"

"I've been racing around all day. I've been to see the old housekeeper, Mrs Ramsey in Brighton. There was a murder there earlier this week, would you believe - Sir Charles' secretary."

"What a coincidence."

Foyle made a face, showing he didn't hold much stock by coincidences.

"Anyway, she told me about this piano teacher of James'. Apparently he left just before his mother died." Foyle bit his lip before going on. "She wouldn't tell me much about the family of course — staff's code of honour, I suppose, but it was clear that James was quite a different boy after losing the two people most close to him. She also gave me a letter."

Foyle fished in his inner jacket pocket. "It was sent to Agnes Littleton — that's the young woman who was murdered."

"How did she die?" Sam asked curiously.

"Is that important?" Foyle gave her a look.

"It might be," Sam said indignantly. "Besides it's been _ages_ since we've had a murder to discuss."

"Thank God," Foyle murmured. "She was strangled with her own stockings."

"Hmm, so a man then."

"Well, most likely, yes…"

"Who is looking after the case?"

"Milner."

"Oh, so that's why you went to see him. How is he?"

"He's fine. Um, might we get back to the letter, please?"

Sam smiled and nodded.

Foyle opened it up carefully. "She put the letter she received into another envelope addressed to a hotel in London."

"Passing it on, you think?"

"Could be." He handed her the letter. "What do you make of this?"

Sam studied the letter for a moment and then frowned. "The writer isn't a native English speaker, I think…"

"Why do you say that?"

"He's got loads of things back to front — you know sayings and such. Look." She pointed to a sentence midway down the page. " 'It's been raining dogs and cats' — we say it the other way round."

Foyle smiled at her, "My thoughts exactly. And look at the date too." He pointed to the top of the page where it read " '1945 Feb 5th'."

Sam looked up, suddenly beaming, "A _code_!"

"Yep."

"How did Mrs Ramsey come to have it?"

"Found it in Agnes' wash."

"Have you shown it to Milner?"

"I have. I've asked him to let me borrow it for now."

"This means you're off to London isn't it?"

Foyle nodded.

"But do we know who wrote it?" Sam turned the page over looking at the signature — "Jack?"

Foyle chewed his cheek in thought. "I have a feeling this Jack might be crucial."

"Who else did you see?"

Foyle broke away from his musings. "Yes, well I tracked down this piano teacher, a Simon Rothstein — well, I tracked down his family."

"Milner's help?"

"Naturally. We found his father through local records. Still lives in Brighton. Simon left under a bit of a cloud, Mrs Devereaux had said, and it struck me as odd. He'd been sent down for theft, but his father is convinced it was a set up."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Sam said.

"Yes, but the sentence was overly strong for a first time offender. Mr Rothstein suggested it was because his son had become too close to Caroline. And to James. He knew too much about the family. Too many secrets."

"So, Sir Charles had him...removed?"

"Well, that's what Mr Rothstein believes."

"Where is his son now?"

Foyle said quietly, "He died while serving his sentence in prison."

Sam shook her head sadly, "How awful."

"Yes, an altogether unpleasant business."

"What are you going to do now?"

Foyle leaned against the table, crossing his arms. "Well, I just hope this letter helps turn something up in London."

"But what about the trial? Has Mr Deakin persuaded James to offer a defence?"

"Not yet." Foyle shook his head in frustration. "I just wish I knew _why_."

Sam rubbed his neck and kissed his cheek. "Look, have you eaten? Shall I make some supper?"

"Aren't you still cross with me? I thought I was meant to 'jolly well do it myself'."

Sam gave him a push, "Yes, well... All this investigating has made me hungry…"

Foyle laughed, "Come on then, Mrs Foyle — I'll make us something to eat."

The next day Foyle drove down to London, the intricacies of this case turning over in his mind, some parts slowly beginning to take shape and fit together. He went to The Crown Hotel that was addressed on the outer envelope and asked for the man it was made out to, a "George Armstrong".

The manager had never heard of him, nor did the entry book show any one by that name. In fact, the man was quite unhelpful, and Foyle left feeling annoyed that he'd hit another dead end. As he left he heard the click of a telephone receiver being lifted and he paused unseen in the entry way.

"It's Dillon. There's something you should know. Yes, but brought in this time. Yes, by a man called Foyle. All right, I will." The receiver was put down with a clunk.

Foyle chewed his lip, wondering if this meant he would soon be paid a visit. _Perhaps it isn't a dead end after all…_

* * *

><p>Sam smoothed her skirt for the third time, feeling anxious. Sat up in the public gallery of Brighton's High Court, she looked down over the bannister to catch a glimpse of the defendant as he was brought into the dock. Her breath caught as she saw the young man, once again reminded of Foyle. In her opinion, there was no mistake: he had the same quiet gravitas about him, the dark thinning hair, and shape of his shoulders. She was surprised to see him look up towards the gallery, eyes flashing a brilliant blue. Following his gaze she saw him looking directly at an older man with white hair in a tweed suit. <em>That must be Sir Charles…<em>

"All rise!"

The door at the far end opened and the judge walked in. There was a shuffling sound of the entire court room moving upwards as one. Sam gripped her gloves tightly in her hand. Now was the moment.

As the room settled again, the judge looked up from under his wig, "Mr Carstairs, have you a plea to enter for your client?"

The old man in black robes stood wearily, looking frustrated. "My client proposes no defence, my Lord, and pleads 'guilty'.

He sat back down again with a thud.

"I see." The judge heaved a sigh and shuffled some papers in front of him.

Sam looked back down at the young man, holding her breath as waves of dismay washed over her. _If the judge sentences him now, Christopher won't stand much chance of overturning the verdict._

The judge cleared his throat. "James Devereaux, I have read the depositions and the exhibits in this case and I am satisfied that you knew what you did, and that you did it intentionally and deliberately in the knowledge that by becoming a member of the so called British Free Corps amounted to high treason."

He stopped for breath, heaving another great sigh. Looking at the young man with some despair he continued, "Mr Devereaux, you come from a noble family — one that has long provided service to this nation. It not only casts your transgressions in a harsher light, but you now stand a self confessed traitor to both King and country. For this, you have forfeited your right to live."

Sam put her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. It had happened so quickly — why would no one stand up for James?

A black cloth was placed on top of the judge's white wig. He continued in a most grave voice, "The sentence of this court is that you be taken from here to a place of lawful execution and hanged from the neck until dead. The Lord have mercy upon your soul."

To Sam's surprise, Devereaux turned again, looking up at the gallery with a triumphant face. The coldness there unsettled her. She looked over at Sir Charles who had gone white as a sheet, perspiration standing out on his forehead.

"Take him down."

Two guards took hold of Devereaux's arms, leading him away below the dock.

When the judge and KC's had left the courtroom, the public gallery began to filter away, reporters hastily scribbling in shorthand for the evening press, and low whispers between people accompanied by shakes of the head.

Sam went slowly down the steps, feeling upset. She kept an eye open for Deakin, hoping to speak to him to see if anything at all could be done. Going outside the court she heard reporters calling out to Sir Charles, but he brushed past them. She felt a moment's pity for the man.

"_Sam_!?"

She jumped and looked around. Foyle was coming along the pavement, looking at her gravely. "What on earth are you doing here? Where's Connie?"

"She's with the neighbour."

"But why have you come here?"

"To find out for you what's going to happen to James." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Tell me, quick."

"Sentenced to hang."

Foyle bowed his head and took a shuddering breath.

"Not if I can help it."

"Christopher, the judge has passed sentence…" Sam began tearfully, reaching out for his arm.

He frowned, "He is innocent, Sam. I will not let him hang."

"But—"

"I'm going to see Deakin."

"But—"

Foyle turned on his heel and went back down the street at a quick pace.

Sam scowled after him, brushing her tears away. She wasn't really mad with him, but it smarted slightly that she wasn't to be included, even after attending the trial to find out what was happening for him. "Why do you keep me out?" she muttered under her breath, crossing the street.

It was always this battle with him. He insisted on doing everything himself, but this time it might just be detrimental to him. _Damn his stubbornness!_ She wished she could do something to help the young man, but most of all, she wished she might do something to help her husband.

It was unbearable to her to see the anguish he unsuccessfully tried to hide in the depths of his eyes. It left her feeling so powerless...and alone.

* * *

><p>Foyle was tired from racing up and down to London, and was in no great mood after hearing about James' sentence. He was shown into Deakin's office, and the solicitor looked at him grimly.<p>

"They've set the date devilish quick. I expect they want to get it over with."

Foyle nodded, heart heavy.

"Well, Mr Foyle, you did all you could."

"I'm not sure."

Deakin stared at him with his one good eye and he frowned. "Look here, Mr Foyle, why don't you come clean with me? I've made some enquiries about you, and frankly you've mislead me. You're not even a policeman any more!"

Foyle looked up sharply._ That'll be Sir Charles' influence, I expect._

"What is your interest in James Devereaux?"

While a part of Foyle wanted to tell Deakin everything — he owed him no less for having mislead the man — he felt such an urgency to get on with helping James that he hardly had the patience to begin.

After hesitating only a moment to consider how to proceed, Foyle said quickly and succinctly, "Whatever interest I may or may not have is irrelevant now in the circumstances, Mr Deakin. My concern, as I would expect yours to be," he continued pointedly, "is in the interest of _justice_."

Deakin huffed, gesturing with his hand, "But the sentence has been passed — in a court of law. It's over. There is nothing more you can do, Mr Foyle." He sounded as if he were explaining a maths sum to a rather stupid child.

"I disagree." Foyle cleared his throat. "Is it no interest to you that Sir Charles' secretary was murdered at the same time as all this was going on? Or what about the coded letter the murdered girl received from a person called 'Jack'? Why was James' piano teacher the victim of an obvious miscarriage of justice? All these things tie into James' case. There is more going on here that needs looking into."

Foyle paused for breath, eyes glinting icily. Deakin looked somewhat alarmed at this outburst, and Foyle could see him thinking hard. He muttered to himself, fingering the patch over his eye, "Most irregular…"

Continuing, Foyle said, "Seems to me there is quite a lot to be done still. Since no one else is going to do it, I will."

He jammed his hat back on his head, "Excuse me."

Deakin stared after him incredulously. "I say, half a minute, Mr Foyle?"

Foyle stopped, looking over his shoulder.

"There was a young fellow in here yesterday, said he was a friend of James' — he was called Jack. Jack Stanford. Very mysterious fellow by all accounts. He was at the trial today too."

Foyle nodded, "Thank you."

"Without any evidence, we'll be right back to where we started," Deakin added, voice suddenly earnest.

"Then I'd best go find us some."

With that, Foyle left. He didn't like being short with Deakin, but it seemed to have rocked the man a bit, which could help further down the line. _The less men in Sir Charles' pocket, the better,_ he thought wryly.

Outside, a man was loitering, waiting for someone or something. As soon as Foyle came up the steps from the law offices, the man tossed his cigarette aside and sidled up to Foyle.

"Mr Foyle? Will you come with us please?"

Another man appeared on Foyle's other side.

Foyle gave a half smile. _I've been expecting you lot…_

"Yes, all right."

He allowed himself to be bundled into a car. They did not drive very far and soon stepped out in an alley near the back of the town's library.

"This way, Mr Foyle."

He followed them up three flights of stairs to the very top of the building. Here, in amongst large stacks of books with yellowing paper and boxes with peeling labels, was a sort of office. Propped against the desk, cane in hand and smiling slightly, was Miss Hilda Pierce. She nodded to the other men who closed the door behind them quietly.

Foyle allowed himself a broad smile. "I should have known, Miss Pierce."

She smiled coyly back, "How are you, Mr Foyle? I thought you had left policing behind?"

"Well, you know how it is." He gave a shrug and moved closer. "So, what can you tell me?"

"Have you got the letter?"

Foyle patted his pocket, "I have."

Miss Pierce nodded towards it and he pulled the letter out for her.

"Do you know who this 'Jack' character is?"

"No. We don't know who our informers were. Records were lost or destroyed at the end of the war somehow — the usual fiasco in communication no doubt — and the informers used code names of course. Many have trickled back in, but some died as POWs."

"And what does James Devereaux have to do with all this?"

"James Devereaux? No idea."

Foyle arched his eyebrows, giving her a look.

"The records have been lost, Foyle, I truly don't know. He may have been one of us, I can't say."

"All right." Foyle cleared his throat, "And this 'Jack'?" He nodded towards the letter in her hand.

"Jack Stanford perhaps? He returned to us a few months ago. He sent us loads of information about the British Free Corps and some of their movements."

Foyle's ears pricked but he said nothing.

"The letter is part of a murder inquiry. You may well receive a visit from my former sergeant, now Inspector, Paul Milner."

"I shall look forward to it," she said ironically, "if he's anything like you." Eyeing him carefully, almost to the point where Foyle felt himself scrutinised, she said slowly. "I knew you could never retire, Mr Foyle."

"Oh?"

"You've got too much left to offer. Don't waste it — come in with us. We could use your brains."

"I think you've got plenty of young minds that would be, er, equally suitable."

"What will you do, Foyle, fish?" She smiled, waving vaguely with her cane, "Bigger fish to fry here…"

Foyle smiled. "I've got a family now, Miss Pierce," he reminded her gently.

"Besides, a friend of mine once said to me that he would fish everyday — no matter what anyone said. I agreed with him at the time, and agree with him still. He never lived to fish again, but I shall, Miss Pierce."

She smiled softly at him, nodding. "Then I shall leave you in peace to enjoy it, Mr Foyle."

They shook hands and she murmured, "Good luck to you."

"And to you, Miss Pierce. Keep up the good fight."

Foyle descended the stairs of the library slowly, mind turning. _Best ring Milner…at last we're getting somewhere!_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**May 1917**

The weekend ended with rain; a perpetual sort of drizzle that wouldn't seem to let up. Foyle held an umbrella over them as they walked, Caroline pressed against his arm. He could feel her breast and the curve of her against him, and he quickly turned to kiss her. She giggled and kissed him back deeply, letting him wrap her in the folds of his Greatcoat. In this weather the street was empty and they went unnoticed. It was as if they existed in a world entirely of their own making, eyes only for each other. Grudging the necessity of duty that pulled them back to reality, their steps were slow.

They had spent two days in the room, ringing down for food and drink when they were hungry, sleeping when they wanted, but mostly talking deep into the night and making love again and again. Sunday evening had come all too quickly, and Foyle and Caroline left the cocoon they had wrapped themselves in. Their walk through the rain brought them to the station, and together they caught the train to Brighton, sitting opposite each other in a full compartment. The other four people busied themselves behind newspapers, but Foyle and Caroline sat exchanging glances, sparks veritably flying across the small space.

At last Foyle tilted his head towards the passage. He stood and pushed open the door, holding it back for her. She looked at him curiously once they were outside. "What is it? Do you want tea in the dining car?"

"No." His voice was low and husky and she shivered pleasantly, hearing the edge there.

"Chris, really…" she grinned, laughing suddenly.

"I don't want to waste a moment we have together," he whispered, putting a heavy hand on her hip.

"Nor do I." Her eyes sparkled and she laughed again. Touching his arm she beckoned him. "Come on…this way."

He followed her along the jolting train passage — he'd hoped only for a quiet corner for a kiss and a cuddle, but the look in her eyes promised more and he felt a thrill slip through him. Looking around carefully, he followed her into the on-board lavatory. It wasn't too awful inside, thankfully, and nearly before he had the door closed and locked, her lips were on his.

"I shall miss you terribly, my darling," she murmured.

"I'm only a few miles away," he began, giving a soft groan as his blood began to race.

"I shall think of you every moment…"

He put a questioning hand on her body so close to his, "I do so want you, Caroline…"

She grinned teasingly at him and pressed herself flush against his body. "And I want you. But we'd better be quick about it."

"How romantic…" Foyle muttered against her lips. The train rattled beneath their feet, the humming of the rails coming up through the floorboards to make their nerves jangle.

"Beggars can't be choosers…"

"I do hope you mean the surroundings rather than me," he bit back playfully, nipping at her ear.

"Oh _do_ be quiet and come here," she said, laughing and giving herself over to the passion they had both ignited so spectacularly two days before.

From then on they saw each other every moment they could. When her husband was up from London it required a lot of sneaking about, but Foyle no longer felt the pang of his conscience. In fact, he was helping her research the law to find a way to divorce Charles. He wanted to make a life with her, no matter what the cost. It wouldn't be easy, but they saw no further than their ultimate goal of being together. Their time was now, and the future seemed very far off and unreal. She was everything to him; she was all that mattered.

The weather remained fine as May slipped into June. Having come straight from Brighton on the train together as soon as they both had a free day, they decided to walk along the Hastings pier. They wanted to enjoy the weather and sea front before retiring to a small inn further along the coast road.

A familiar voice called out, causing Foyle to freeze. Caroline looked at him in surprise before turning to glance behind them.

The voice called out again, "_Christopher_?"

Foyle turned, "Hello, sir."

The other man, dressed smartly in a police sergeant's uniform, was of an average height, though broad shouldered. He had a ruddy, kindly face with a drooping moustache, flecked with grey. "What are you doing here? Have you seen your mother?"

"No, not yet." Foyle went red and let go of Caroline's arm.

Flicking his eyes towards the young woman, the other man said, "Good evening, Miss —?"

Without thinking she replied, "Devereaux. Caroline Devereaux."

He tipped his hat to her, "A pleasure, I'm sure, Miss Devereaux."

Turning back to Foyle, he smirked. "Well, you'd both best come back for tea then. Your mother will be glad to see you. It's been a while."

Foyle looked at him guiltily, not quite meeting his eyes, "Yes, Dad."

Caroline put a hand over her mouth, stifling a smile. Foyle's father turned back to her, twinkling slightly, "You will join us, won't you, Miss Devereaux?"

She nodded, composing her face. "How very kind, Mr Foyle."

They began walking all together back up towards the road. "What are you doing out here on the pier, Dad?" Foyle asked curiously after a moment.

"Can't a man have a spot of fresh air?" He grinned.

Foyle gave him a look, raising an eyebrow.

"I was speaking to Fred about some troublemakers he had in last night. What with the weekend coming on, it is best to stay ahead of these things."

"You would think," said Caroline, smiling at the older man, "seeing as we're in the middle of a war, people would hold off squabbling and being a nuisance."

"You might well be right, Miss," Mr Foyle nodded, "but then I'd be out of a job, wouldn't I?"

"Quite right, Mr Foyle."

They spoke the entire way to the house, Foyle Senior obviously curious about the pretty young lady his son seemed to have snapped up. His eyes missed nothing and Foyle felt somewhat uncomfortable, as if they'd been caught out.

"Come in, come in," Mr Foyle said easily as they arrived, leading the way inside the door, stooping slightly.

"Mother, we've got two more for tea," he called through the house.

As Foyle helped Caroline off with her coat, he mouthed, "_Sorry_…"

She shook her head and smiled at him, eyes glinting with curiosity of her own.

Mrs Foyle came through, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tiny, stocky woman, hair already a wispy grey, pulled back with some severity. Her eyes, light blue like her son's, crinkled as she saw him. "Christopher!" she smiled, letting him kiss her on the cheek.

"Hallo, Mum."

"And who have you brought with you? Why, it's Nurse Devereaux isn't it?"

Caroline beamed, looking pleased at being remembered. "It is. Caroline, please."

"Have we _you_ to thank for our son's health?" Mr Foyle asked, looking suitably grateful and impressed all at once.

"Well, the doctor did have a bit more to do with it than I," she began modestly, face still beaming, "but I like to think I helped in the process."

"I should think you _did_," Mr Foyle said, smiling heartily. His wife elbowed him.

"Do come in, my dears, the tea is ready and waiting."

Mrs Foyle set out another two places, and he watched Caroline shyly, thinking it odd to see her here in his childhood home. She looked around her curiously, taking it all in. A large dresser on the far wall held rows of blue and white Spode plates facing outwards prettily. There was an overall sense of neatness and order; everything had its place.

"You've a beautiful home, Mrs Foyle," she said politely, sitting down beside Foyle.

"How kind of you to say so, Miss Devereaux," Mrs Foyle said smiling. "We've been very happy here."

Handing around the served plates, Foyle said, "Been keeping busy at the station, Dad?"

"Not terribly."

"Will you go back to the police, Chris, once this is all over?" Caroline asked with interest.

"Yes, I should think so."

"They'd have you back like a shot," Mr Foyle said confidently. He turned to Caroline, "Christopher's got a very sharp mind, and I've told him if he plays his cards right—"

"Yes, but that isn't always possible, Dad," Foyle protested.

Mr Foyle huffed, "Always need more experienced men on the force. And now with this training…"

Foyle rolled his eyes, " 'Temporary Officer and Gentleman' won't mean much, I think. All they seem to teach us is etiquette and table manners…"

"I should hope," said Mrs Foyle with some fervour, "that those things wouldn't be limited to only _gentleman_."

"Quite so, Mum," Foyle said placatingly.

"Right, shall we pray?" she said, ending the matter there.

They did so, listening to Mr Foyle's deep voice give thanks for the food, adding thanks for bringing Caroline to visit them and for her part in helping Christopher towards health.

Foyle's hand found hers underneath the table and gave it a squeeze.

Through the meal they spoke easily, Caroline being peppered with well meaning questions. There was also plenty of banter at Foyle's expense and one or two embarrassing childhood stories told to Caroline.

Finally, Foyle said impatiently, "We _have_ actually made plans—"

He was cut off by his father protesting, "But we haven't shown Miss Devereaux the garden yet."

Foyle sighed, "I've seen the garden plenty of times, so why don't you show Caroline and I'll help Mum with the washing up."

"Splendid." Mr Foyle grinned and led the way to the back of the house.

In the garden, Caroline slipped an arm through the older man's, allowing herself to be led around and shown the best blooms.

Pausing to admire a particularly lovely set of delphiniums, she said without thinking, "These are even better than those at White Friars, our gardener has had a hard…"

She broke off, realising her mistake and looking away quickly.

Mr Foyle nodded sagely, but said only a soft, "Thank you, my dear."

They walked on, advancing through the garden.

"I can see he thinks the world of you, Miss Devereaux."

She nodded. "I care for him so very much, Mr Foyle."

"We've been very worried about him; you seem to have brought him back to himself, however."

"He had a terrible time." Her voice was grim.

"The things you must see, Miss Devereaux, as a nurse — it is unthinkable."

"They see much worse, and therefore I can bear it. I only play a small part in helping to put them back together again."

Mr Foyle nodded. After a moment he went on. "I have heard your name before…Devereaux — not very common is it…?" he said, giving her a sideways glance. His face was serious; businesslike.

"Oh?" She looked worried.

"I should hope that if you care for him truly, Miss Devereaux, that you will not let him down?" He looked at her openly and honestly, no judgement hiding behind his eyes, only real concern.

"I shall try my best not to let him down, Mr Foyle, truly I shall. I will miss him terribly when he goes back."

"Then, with you standing by him, I should think he can overcome anything," the older man said softly, looking at her with a knowing smile. He seemed satisfied and patted her hand where it lay on his arm.

Eyes twinkling suddenly, he added, "Now, I'll just show you these little lovelies and then let you two young people get on with your evening."

Caroline swallowed back the lump in her throat, wondering at such kindness in these Foyle men and loving Christopher all the more.

* * *

><p><strong>August 1945<strong>

"Hallo? Anyone about?"

Andrew dropped his bags heavily in the hall and whipped off his hat to chuck on the stand.

"Sam? Dad?"

He walked through and jumped out of his skin as Sam came around the corner and hissed at him in a furious whisper.

"_Do_ be quiet — I've only just managed to get her settled for a nap."

Andrew held up his hands apologetically and whispered, "Sorry."

He looked at Sam in some alarm, noticing the smudges under her eyes and her general tired appearance. She beckoned to him, and he followed her past the pram where he spied the fitfully sleeping child, into the kitchen.

Sam turned to him, catching up his hand and squeezing it. "Sorry, Andrew, you weren't to know."

"Am I forgiven then?" He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow, dark hair flopping forwards onto his forehead.

She leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Yes. Welcome home." Fingering the beard he'd grown in the days he'd been away she added, "Do they approve of this sort of thing in London?"

He grinned, "Apparently. I've got a place!"

Sam's tired face broke into a smile, "Oh, but that's wonderful news! Where? When do you begin?"

"It's for a small newspaper. Won't pay much, but it's a start. A friend of mine put me on to them." He rubbed his beard, "And half the chaps there have beards, so I fit right in."

They laughed and Sam hugged him tightly. She held on to him a moment too long and he said suddenly, "I say, old thing, is everything all right?"

She broke away and rubbed her face crossly, "Yes, just me being silly. It's so very good to have you home again."

Andrew looked concerned and bent down to look at her properly, seeking her eyes, "Sam? What's up? Is it Dad?"

"It's just been a trying week… Connie has been fretful and I'm just tired, that's all."

"Where's Dad? Has he left you alone here to go to the river?"

"I can manage," Sam said somewhat indignantly at first, adding softly, "I don't know where he is."

"You don't _know_…I say, Sam, what the devil is going on? Have you rowed? I thought he was meant to be retiring."

"He was. Something came up."

"_What_?" Andrew looked at her incredulously. "Something came up and you don't know where he is? You aren't making sense."

"_Andrew_ — he's investigating something; it's jolly important so he's been running around like mad."

"But—"

"I can't tell you any more than that."

"Is it hush hush?"

"I am sure he will tell you when he has the chance."

She went to put the kettle on, and he followed her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Sam, you _would_ tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Everything is fine, Andrew."

"But you would…if there was something…"

She looked at him, "Sometimes, Andrew, your father is so ruddy stubborn I could wring his neck, but I love him all the same. He's maddening when he has the bit between his teeth, but I wouldn't change him for the world. What he is working on is very important, and so if I have to hold up my end here, I will."

Andrew nodded, thinking. He moved away to the window, thrusting his hands in his pockets and gazing outside. "You know I used to think he threw himself into his work because he was running away from something. After Mum died…well, I used to think it was _me_…but as I've gotten older and after spending time with him again this summer, I realise he's running towards something…something better. He is one of the few who can make a difference — someone who really cares."

Turning back to her, he sighed, "He believes so strongly in justice and doing the right thing. It drives him with a sort of fury, doesn't it?"

Sam's eyes became bright and she nodded, "He's the best man I've ever known."

"Damned decent," Andrew agreed. "Aren't we the lucky ones, eh?" he added, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully.

"And those he fights for — they're lucky too." Sam said softly, thinking of James Devereaux.

He nodded, "Even if it means you _are_ left holding the reins."

"Even then."

"Can't you give me even a clue to what's going on?" he pleaded suddenly.

"_Andrew_."

"Well, I come home to find the old man's running his own investigations up and down the coast, leaving you to hold the fort, and with no idea where he is. I mean, really, Sam: can't a chap at least _ask_?" he said, rolling his eyes.

"Andrew," Sam said again, shaking her head with a laugh, "he will tell you when he's back. It's his news, not mine."

He threw up his hands and moved to lean against the table. Crossing his arms he stared at the opposite wall thoughtfully. Sam was glad to see him, and she was equally glad to see he looked his robust self again. A summer at home and a spell in London seemed to have done him the world of good. His quiet reserve had slowly slipped away with Foyle and Sam's cherishing, and he had become more his old self again. It was only the aged look in his face that was any indication that he'd weathered a substantial endeavour.

"I've missed you all," Andrew said quietly. "I rather like being a family again."

Tossing a tea towel at him, Sam said, "Well, now you're back, you can jolly well make yourself useful."

Andrew grinned, "Oh I see…sing for my supper…"

"Absolutely. You can start with these runner beans."

They went to work, a comfortable silence settling over them. At last Sam spoke, startling Andrew from his own thoughts.

"I have never needed anyone else. And while I don't mind being here, keeping house and being a mother, I feel suddenly left out. Perhaps if I had some other mum friends I wouldn't feel quite so out of my depth all the time. Does that make sense?"

She was half talking to herself, but turned to Andrew to see him where he sat at the table, his hands moving automatically over the beans.

"Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose it does. You and Dad have always done everything together, and now you feel you have to stay here."

"I don't begrudge him for it, but I just…" she paused, trying to put her finger on just how to explain the upheaval life had been recently.

"Just never thought you'd be a housewife, resigned to making dinners rather than solving murders?" He grinned at her.

"No, I suppose I never did. I don't mind it — I do it all for him and Connie gladly; it makes me happy to do it…yet I do miss feeling more _useful_. I feel I can't do anything to help him."

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. "I dare say you're useful, Sam, just in different ways now."

"I suppose…he has so much left to give though, don't you think? And now he's retiring…"

Andrew gave a small laugh, twinkling at Sam with some amusement, "I think it is more about that _you've_ got more still to give…"

Sam smiled back at him, "Perhaps you're right. And he does deserve his retirement."

"You'll both find something to do, whether it be together or not. This isn't just…well, _it_, Sam."

"The voice of reason," she said with a laugh, coming to sit beside him at the table.

Andrew shrugged, "Things always look clearer to one removed from the situation…"

He added, "I say, why don't we go for a walk when Connie wakes up? Get out of the house for a bit? It would do you good I expect. I'll take you both to tea."

Sam grinned at him, "What a nice idea. All right."

"Good."

"You can tell me about London."

"It was _smashing_. We danced every night and drank far too much."

"_We_?"

Grinning broadly, Andrew said slowly, "Well…there was this girl…"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**August 1945**

"I'd better telephone Sam, Milner," Foyle said wearily, rubbing his forehead. "If I ruin another of her dinners she'll have my guts for garters."

"Use my telephone," Milner said, heaving himself up out of his chair behind the desk and limping towards the door. While his old war injury gave him less trouble lately, it was still evident. He smiled brightly, "Say hallo to her from me."

"I will."

Foyle picked up the receiver and asked for his home number while checking his wristwatch. Sam came on the line and Foyle said quickly, "Hallo, love."

"Christopher. How did you get on?"

"Good. We've been to see Mrs Ramsey again. She's given us a clue about the name 'Jack'."

"I've been thinking about that too — isn't 'Jack' usually the diminutive of John?"

"Well, yes—"

Sam interrupted him, "But those coded letters…and Sir Charles' secretary — well what if…"

"James wrote the letters?" they said together.

They both chuckled and Foyle put the receiver closer to his ear, the force of her smile all but coming down the line.

"Well, soon find out. Too late to go to the prison today though. I'm just here with Milner now, going over the murder case with him. I still believe it ties in somehow."

"Will you be late?"

"I'll try not to."

"Andrew's home."

"Everything all right?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Listen, take Paul out for a drink, Christopher — talk about old times. It would do you both good I think."

"Old times … er, well, we'd only talk about _you_, you know." Foyle smiled, a sudden image of Sam saluting him in her MTC uniform coming to mind. "He says hello."

"Hallo back." She went quiet and Foyle cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead again.

Lowering his voice, he said quietly, "Look, sorry about, um, being short earlier. It _was_ better that I heard the result of the trial from you."

"Really?" While she didn't sound cross with him, Foyle suspected she didn't want to let him off too easily.

"Yes. So, er, thank you for going."

"Just wanted to help to you."

"And you did. Truly, Sam."

"All right." This time her voice had given way to softness, and he smiled.

"How's my girl?"

"Asleep at last. I think she's a bit colicky — wouldn't stop crying."

"You all right?" His voice was warm and low, meaning to comfort, and he heard Sam's breath hitch over the line.

"Yes. Just tired … I miss you."

"I'll be home soon."

"Have that drink first."

"We will."

"I love you."

Foyle looked around the empty office half self-consciously, before murmuring with great feeling, "Love you too, my darling."

It was quite late when Foyle finally made it home. He and Milner had gone for a drink and something to eat at a local pub. Their talk had centred on the case, which between the two policemen they had been able to link most events. Milner was pleased as it would solve his murder enquiry, and Foyle was satisfied because it meant there was a decent chance at last to help James.

While Milner was curious as to Foyle's interest in the case, he knew better than to ask. Instead he moved the conversation to home life, asking after Sam and Connie. Foyle was more than happy to talk about his two favourite girls. They also talked about their war days; old cases and those strange moments one finds oneself in when everything has changed. Foyle was glad to think back to some of the good times they had all had together.

It seemed Milner had done well for himself too: not only was he a fine policeman, but he had married a lovely young lady who was now expecting. Milner's only grumble was his Police Constable who was, by all accounts, a bit too big for his boots. It pleased Foyle to see Milner continuing his work as the young man was good at it.

Thinking of this as he came into the house, Foyle felt glad things had turned out well for Milner. He had worked hard during their time together. _How long ago that seems now_, Foyle thought, heading quietly up the stairs. _Sam bouncing her way into our lives, all eager to do her bit…quite bowled me over…_

Foyle crept along the corridor carefully so as not to wake the sleeping household. As he came into their room, he watched his girls, drinking in the peace of the moment. He lingered over the crib, sighing softly to himself. He too hoped that he would return to such a peaceful feeling once tomorrow was over and he'd seen James.

Pulling off his suit as quietly as he could, setting it neatly over the back of a chair, Foyle thought about what the conversation with James might bring. He sighed again as he slipped into bed, limbs and mind exhausted. _One hell of a last hurrah, man…if this is retirement…_

With that thought he was fast asleep.

He dreamt unsettling things; familiar faces flashing past, old emotions surging upwards. He was back in the trenches. Foyle saw himself hovering above the heads of his men under his command. The whistle was between his lips and he looked down. Staring back at him were the faces of Andrew and James in amongst the others: Fred Morris, Bat Balcomb, Ian Lowe. He paused, trying to understand why his boys were there. A feeling of helplessness threatened to drown him and he woke with a gasp.

A cool hand touched his shoulder carefully, "Oh my darling, what is it?"

Foyle, chest still heaving, turned to see Sam sat up in bed, feeding Connie. He rubbed his eyes, surprised to feel tears there.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever am I going to tell Andrew?"

Sam looked back down at the child at her breast, sighing, "Christopher, you must tell him the truth."

"It feels like I've only just made things up with him…I can't bear to lose him again…"

"You don't give him enough credit…this was before Rosalind…before anything — he has a right to know."

Sitting up, breath slowing at last, Foyle nodded. He whispered, "I dreamt he and James were under my command…in the trench with me…"

She reached for his hand, gripping it hard. "You never talk about the first war…"

"No, I don't like to… but it's all I can seem to think about these days…it's all been dredged up, I suppose." The men's faces came to mind again and Foyle shook his head.

"You know I will listen if you want to talk…"

He squeezed her hand and took a shuddering breath, "It felt like I was losing them both, you see…what if he despises me? What if they both do?"

"You are a decent man, Christopher, but you are a man all the same. They must understand that you were in love with her and you couldn't be sure what would happen. They've both just been through a war — they've seen such terrible things and experienced God only knows what — of all the men in your life, surely _they_ would be the ones to have some understanding of what you went through and how you were feeling?"

To Sam's surprise, Foyle encircled her and Connie in his arms, putting his lips against her temple. Murmuring softly with trembling voice he said, "Darling Sam. How right you are. You _are_ wonderful, you know."

She turned to find his lips and kissed him sweetly. "Give them both time to understand it all, Christopher. Children never expect parents to have had such things happen to them. It will come as a shock perhaps, but he can't hate you for it."

"He might."

"Give him a bit more credit." She smiled softly at him, "After all, Andrew gets it from you."

"Gets, er, _what_ from me?"

"The devilish charm and eye for the ladies…" She tickled his chin.

"Hmm, perhaps. But my eyes are entirely focused on you and this little lady…_both_ handfuls enough, I must say…"

She gave him a slight push and he finally smiled.

After a moment, he added seriously, "And you, Sam?"

She understood what he meant. "No, Christopher, how could I? I have no right — it was a lifetime ago and it made you into the man you are today. The man I love more than anything."

"I don't deserve you…"

"Don't be silly," she said impatiently. "What will you say to James tomorrow?"

Foyle chewed his lip, settling himself against her and watching the child go on blissfully nudging at her breast. "Not sure, really."

"It will come to you. Tell him the truth."

He sighed, "Yes…" Turning his head, he added, "What made you think James wrote the letters?"

Sam smiled, "Well, if he's anything like you…"

Foyle gave a downwards turn of his lips in a half smile, "Should have come to you instead of running around Brighton…"

"We always did make a formidable team; with Paul too of course."

He nodded, closing his eyes. "We did indeed. He and his wife are expecting by the way."

"How lovely," Sam grinned, "I can just see Paul as a father; it will suit him."

She added, "I don't suppose he needs a driver, does he?"

Foyle, eyes still closed, made a face. "No, he's got a young constable who thinks he is God's gift to the police force."

He cracked open one eye, "You want to go back to work?"

"Well, it just crossed my mind."

"If you really want to Sam…"

"We don't have to discuss it now…"

"Come down to Brighton tomorrow. Meet me for lunch after I see James? Would give you a bit of break and we can finally talk properly."

"Yes, lovely idea. I'll put Andrew in charge of Connie. I am sure I can leave them alone for a _few_ hours."

"Speaking of — Andrew all right?"

"Yes, he's found a place at a newspaper."

"Oh?"

Sam grinned as she added, "And he's grown a beard."

Foyle chuckled and nuzzled against her shoulder sleepily. "Jolly good…"

* * *

><p><strong>1917<strong>

A strong wind blew in off the sea creating large waves that crashed up the beach. Foyle was mesmorised by the movement and nearly didn't hear her coming towards him. He turned, smiling as she approached, happy to have a few hours with her. He had only a week left of training so each moment felt precious.

Caroline's face was grave however, and his smile disappeared.

"Caroline? What is it?"

"We need to speak, Chris. Let's walk down towards the water."

A fear that had lain dormant in the back of his mind suddenly reared up. He swallowed hard and nodded.

Their steps crunched on the pebbles and Foyle tried to steel himself for what she had to say. He was thinking the worst. At last they stopped.

Looking out over the choppy water she said, "I'm so sorry, Chris. I can't see you again. I'm going back to Charles."

Pausing breathlessly as his insides contracted, Foyle finally said none too kindly, "I wasn't aware you'd left him precisely." He raised his eyebrows so that they became lost under his hat.

He saw her grit her teeth. "I'm expecting, Chris. For the sake of the child, I'm going back to Charles."

Foyle stared at her, mind beginning to reel. "But," he stammered, "you — I mean — you and I…it's…well, _mine_, surely?"

He looked at her with alarm, heart dropping like a stone.

She continued to stare at the waves, not meeting his gaze. "If you care for me at all, Chris, please…" her voice faltered and Foyle saw her eyes fill with tears.

Putting a hand to his face in disbelief, he felt lost for words.

She choked out, "You must promise to never see me again…"

"I can't. I _won't_. Oh Caroline, why are you saying this?" I love you, you know that. I want to make a life with you. With this child." He put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off.

He felt a sudden desperation. "Look, the war won't last forever. I'll be in the Police once I'm finished, and you heard my father: this officer training will stand me in good stead — I can look after us."

She shook her head, "I must go. I have to think of the child now."

"I'll march down to London and tell Charles myself," Foyle began heatedly, "I won't —"

She interrupted him, "_No_, Chris. You don't know what he is like — he would _ruin_ you." There was real fear in her face and she looked at him with wide eyes.

"I don't care — I'd have _you_…" Foyle broke off, adding bitterly, "Or is it because I have nothing to offer you? A _policeman's_ son…"

"You _know_ it isn't that. I can't leave Charles — I must give my marriage another chance. I've made my decision. Please, Chris…" Her voice was pleading now, "do as I ask and forget about me."

"So this is it?" Foyle began, a sudden anger boiling over, "You send me away like a dog, expecting me to obey. How _can_ you — after everything? Did it mean _nothing_ to you? You're sending me to a certain death and you won't even answer me properly!"

"Rage at me all you like," Caroline said quietly, folding her arms. "I'm used to it."

Foyle's anger melted, the desperation and helplessness inside his chest quelling it. He hung his head, "Then _why_ go back? Oh my darling, I can't bear it — I should _never_ forgive myself if I let you return to such sadness without a proper fight."

"You will have to," she said, turning at last to fling herself into his arms. "My loyalty must lie with my husband, you must try to understand…"

"What has changed?" Foyle asked, his voice catching at the lump in his throat. He clung to her wildly, afraid to let her go. "What have I done?"

She pulled back to look at him, tears streaming down her face, "_Nothing_. You've been everything and more to me, darling man. But I can't divorce Charles. You don't know him — there is no other way. I must try to make a go of things, and now with the child…" She gave a little sob, "This is not easy for me, but I _must_ stop it now."

"But I _love_ you," Foyle said in a trembling voice, as if this would somehow change things.

Caroline took a deep breath, gripping the lapels of his uniform tightly in her fists. "For the sake of everything we've been to one another you must go on with your life and never see me again. It's for the best, believe me."

"No, no," Foyle shook his head, gripping her arms forcefully.

"Do it for me. Promise me — do as I ask, please, Chris. Forget me." Her eyes begged him, and he felt compelled to let her go.

She slipped from his hands, "Goodbye…and good luck."

He wanted to grab at her arm but his muscles didn't seem to be working. He felt as though he had been punched in his middle, a roaring sound filling his ears. He was frozen: watching her walk away back up the beach, unable to do a thing.

Foyle couldn't be sure how long he stood there, but the wind had brought a rain in from the sea. His brain continued to reel. In her he had seen the need to be accepted; to be _loved_ and made to feel wanted. Perhaps her part in their affair had only been to fulfil a neediness within herself? As a nurse she was useful, appreciated even; as a wife she was a possession — but with _him_ she had found all she'd been looking for.

Yet, he was out of her grasp and he knew not how to go after her. He would stand no chance against the reach of one like Sir Charles Devereaux. Standing alone, without Caroline on his side, there would be no possibility of claiming her. She had said in no uncertain terms that she did not want him now; she did not want him coming after her. He could not force her; she had been forced her entire life, and he would _not_ do as the other men in her life had done.

Foyle's confusion made him feel sick. It was as if the reeling of his mind was like that of the waves, rising and falling to make him feel unsteady. He had let down all his walls, letting her in gladly, and now he felt vulnerable and raw.

It was his feet that finally led him home; the one place his numb mind seemed to realise was the solid fixture in his life. He couldn't remember walking there or entering the house. He wasn't sure how long he'd sat on the bottom step of his childhood home, but his mother found him there, drenched to the bone, when she returned.

"Christopher? Oh just look at you, you'll catch your death. What _are_ you doing?"

He was pale, eyes unseeing. At her voice he looked up dumbly, blinking at her familiar, comforting face.

"What is it?" She felt his forehead in concern with one hand, the other gripping his wrist. "Are you ill?"

Mrs Foyle felt him shivering and she was just about to order him into dry clothes when the tears on his cheeks stopped her. She pulled his father's police cloak from the stand, tugging it around his shoulders. Then she sat beside him, stroking his hair soothingly, pushing the wet, cropped curls back from his face with soft fingers.

"It's to do with your Miss Devereaux isn't it?"

Foyle nodded numbly, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of tears rolled past his eyelids.

Mrs Foyle sighed, almost as if she had known this day would come. She said nothing, only drew her boy into her arms, kissing the top of his head like she had done when he was small. "Shh, now, son. Mum's got you."

Something inside Foyle broke, and he felt as if he were drowning from within.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**August 1945**

Sam woke curled into her husband's broad back and she rolled away slightly for a moment, wondering what had woken her. She raised her head to look at the crib, _no, not Connie…_ She saw a soft band of light in the window, edged with pink. _Dawn._

Looking back down at Christopher she felt even more worried after hearing he had been dreaming about his soldiering days. If it wasn't enough that he was anxious about James, there were his memories plaguing him. She sighed to herself, wishing she could ease her love's troubles. She'd give anything to see the creases in his forehead disappear; to see the light that twinkled in his eyes return. This made her feel slightly selfish, but she was worried, and the day that something could finally be done to help James was here. She only hoped the young man would not fight it — that he would accept Foyle's help and recognise the genuine nature of his offer.

It wouldn't be easy. Sam half wished she could march down to the prison and give the young man a piece of her mind, but this was between James and Foyle. That Foyle was so anxious about it only proved he cared, and Sam felt she couldn't really fault him for that. She hated to see him so preoccupied though, and even now in sleep he was frowning, one eyebrow twitching. She put her lips against his shoulder, the fingers of one hand brushing across the soft hairs there gently.

Moving her lips down along his shoulders, tracing the moles and spots of age like one might points on a map, she reached the base of his neck. Burying her nose in the soft curls, now grey, she breathed in heavily, a pleasant shiver cascading through her. She wanted to help him, and thought briefly, _well…perhaps I still can…_

With her tongue diving past the curls, tickling the soft skin of the back of his neck, she snuffled in his thinning, yet curly hair. It was flecked with grey, and she rather liked the way it sprang up in tufts when disturbed. Her warm breath was at his ear now, and she slipped her tongue inside, teeth catching his lobe softly.

His breathing changed and she felt him stiffen with surprise at being woken in such a way.

"Hullo…" she murmured throatily, fluttering her eyes at him.

He gave her a crooked smile, eyes not quite open yet. "Hullo..."

With a heavy sigh through his nose he turned towards her, nuzzling against her in the spot he loved between her shoulder and neck. It was a place reserved just for him and he revelled in it. Sam began a slow and tender exploration of his unshaven face, the stubble tickling her. He moved his chin, and the stubble rasped, causing her to utter a small, but pleasurable, "_oh!_"

His breathing changed again and suddenly his eyes were open. Slipping a warm leg between hers, he nudged his way closer and she pressed her hands to his back, encouraging him. Foyle kissed her then, long and languidly, still waking up and enjoying the unhurried feel of her against him. Sam suspected she smelled of milk, and probably even sweat from the previous day, but did not feel self-conscious; he in turn smelled musky and warm, and it quickened her pulse. She loved his smell; loved that she smelled of him after their endeavours. She was his, and that too gave her a thrill. To be enveloped by him was to feel at peace.

Distracted by these thoughts, Sam was brought back to the present by Foyle's tongue, which was doing delightful things. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed herself closer, shivering with delight as she felt his desire against her. Slipping one leg around his waist as they lay facing one another, she nudged him with her nose. He took the hint and slid home slowly, drawing a low moan from her. Foyle grinned and took a deep breath, moving gently and without haste. Like this they were wrapped up in one another, arms and legs entwined, skin becoming pleasantly warm where it met with the other's.

_Two can play at this game_, Sam thought as he continued to move leisurely, smiling broadly. She contracted her inner muscles with intent, and his breath caught and he pitched forwards, teeth sinking into her shoulder carefully, stifling the cry he had in his throat. The entire length of their bodies were pressed together and Sam felt his heartbeat reverberating in his chest.

She knew he had patience though, and she let him grasp her to him, inching his way deeper until she too buried her face in his neck. She gave a soft mewl and he suddenly turned over onto his back, bringing her with him so that she was on top of him. Sinking into him further as she rose above him, Sam gave a low gasp. He gripped her arms as she moved against him and closed his eyes. They needed no words, the soft touches speaking volumes of their own.

Sam gasped again as quietly as she could, nearly gritting her teeth, fingers digging into his shoulders. Her eyes were wide and Foyle opened his, grinning at her unexpected surprise. He moved beneath her with a few measured movements and she collapsed onto him, biting her lip hard. Her hair covered his face and he nuzzled his way towards her lips through her soft tresses, clutching at her hips tightly and keeping her there with him. He breathed out sharply through his nose and then he too relaxed, his grip on her becoming limp.

_He really is magnificent..._Snuggling into his shoulder, Sam sighed and Foyle gave a small chuckle, pushing her hair to one side.

"Good morning, darling wife."

"Not yet…" she murmured sleepily, and in each other's arms they fell back to sleep, having missed the dawning of early morning entirely.

* * *

><p>The young man was standing by the window in his customary spot when Foyle was brought in to the visiting cell. In the light of morning streaming through the bars, Foyle thought he looked dreadful. James Devereaux turned to him, and he smiled softly.<p>

"Why do you keep agreeing to see me?" Foyle asked curiously.

Devereaux, face blank and unrelenting replied, "To find out why you keep coming back…presumably this time it is to say goodbye."

"Oh, far from it." Foyle advanced into the room with slow steps, hands behind his back. "But I _do_ think it was time we were honest with each other." He thought of Sam's words the night before, and felt grateful for his wife's sound advice.

"Certainly time you were honest with me."

Foyle gave him a look. "Has, er, Agnes been to see you?"

Devereaux's eyebrow shot up in surprise, "How do you know about _her_?"

Breathing deeply, Foyle said quickly, "Because I know about _you. Jack_."

The young man blinked a few times and Foyle could see his mind racing.

"Has she been?"

"No."

"Do you know why?"

Devereaux shook his head.

Biting his lip, Foyle sat down at the table. "I know what you're doing." He swallowed hard and continued, "Not sure why you are doing it, but it's a tragedy you haven't been able to see the consequences."

Devereaux blinked again, the vein in his neck pulsing steadily.

"And _I_ think it's time you stopped. Because she's dead."

"How?" he asked, eyes wide.

"She was strangled. At an address in Brighton… at, er, an address you'd be familiar with, I think."

Devereaux looked down, slumping against the wall underneath the barred window.

"And you know who did it."

Looking up, the men met each other's eyes, holding the gaze. It seemed then to Foyle that the young man gave in; something in his eyes showed that the fight was over.

He came to sit down at the table, which to Foyle was a small triumph in itself.

"How long had you know Agnes?" he began, placing his hands on the table.

"I knew her when we were children; we used to play together on the estate."

"And you wrote to her later from Germany — she passed on your coded letters to the Intelligence Services. The letters you signed 'Jack'."

Devereaux stared at his own hands, picking at his thumb nail, not looking at Foyle.

"How do you know all this?"

"So you don't deny it?"

Devereaux shook his head. "No," he breathed.

"Why, er, _Jack_?"

The young man's mouth lifted in a small smile, "My mother used to call me Jack. It was the name of a character in my favourite storybooks as a boy. Jack Harkaway."

Foyle returned a soft smile. "And was Agnes a part of your group?"

He shook his head again, "No, she was just the messenger." Looking up and taking a breath, Devereaux outlined how the coded letter system had worked. It seemed fairly straightforward to Foyle and he nodded quietly.

"Anyone else in the British Free Corp know you were doing this?"

"Yes, there was. He'd worked it all out for himself, I didn't even have to say anything…"

"Jack Stanford."

Devereaux's eyebrows shot up again, and he looked impressed as he nodded.

Foyle took another deep breath, gesturing with his hand towards the other man, "And why was it so very important for your father to be at the trial when you had refused to see or even speak to him before it?"

Devereaux looked down again, lips pressing themselves into a hard line. Foyle nodded to himself, _here is the point we always come back to…what has his father done to warrant such a reaction each time?_

"Why would he believe you wanted to punish him?"

"Because it's true. He needs to be."

Foyle narrowed his eyes, studying the man across the table from him carefully. He was clearly troubled, and Foyle chewed his lip before saying, "Punished? Because of your mother?"

Devereaux looked up swiftly. There seemed true fear in his eyes, and Foyle felt his stomach clench. _Be honest, tell him the truth, you must tell him now…_

"I knew her."

He took a breath and went on, "I was injured in the first war, not very badly, but I was young…alone…frightened. She was a volunteer nurse."

The young man's eyes widened, brimming with tears, and he stared at Foyle in disbelief.

"Your mother was … _beautiful_," Foyle paused, hearing his heart beating loudly in his ears. He added very quietly, "I knew her."

An unbidden image of Caroline laughing in his arms came to him. They had been so euphoric during those first days together; they had made such plans for life…Foyle's eyes misted over, the blue there bright behind a sheen of unshed tears.

"She…she was married to my father at the time…"

"Yes."

Devereaux continued to stare at Foyle, looking both bewildered and stunned.

"I _can_ tell you that she was desperately unhappy with the life she was leading…and that she was happiest when he was away."

Foyle bit his lip, "But she chose to…um, pursue that life for the sake of the child she was carrying."

"_Me_." Tears rolled freely down his face.

Foyle twitched his lips into the merest hint of a smile and blinked. _Yes._

The young man turned away, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. He stood and went back to the window, putting some distance between them.

Foyle chewed his cheek for a moment before saying softly, "I read about the accident…just awful. I was very upset to hear that she'd died."

"It wasn't an accident," Devereaux said sharply, turning to look over his shoulder at Foyle.

The force of his words seemed to echo around the barred room and Foyle felt his heart sink. His eyes went wide as he watched the young man's face turn from red to white. The look there was devastating.

"They had a terrible argument…something about Simon, my old piano teacher. She was threatening to leave him…to tell everyone what sort of man he was…she'd had enough." Devereaux closed his eyes tightly, tears continuing to stream down his cheeks silently. "He…he went after her…I was in… in the hide…"

The young man's voice had become tight with emotion and he was barely able to whisper the last word. Foyle bit down hard on his lip, a feeling of utter horror resonating through him. _Oh God…Caroline…_

He put his hand up to his face, rubbing his forehead. _Why…oh why did you go back to him…poor James…I'm so sorry…so very sorry I wasn't there for you both…._

Foyle's face was stricken, and the young man looked at him carefully, seeking his eyes. What he read there seemed to give him some sort of hope and reassurance…Here was a man who had known his mother, respected her, remembered her. A man who had gone out of his way to help him, her son.

Devereaux rubbed his face, drying it with his sleeve's cuff. "What will happen to me now?" He gave Foyle a watery smile: one that however finally reached his eyes.

Foyle stood, clearing his throat and smiling weakly back, feeling almost winded. "Well, you'll be released, I'd say. May take a day or two. And if there is anything I can do to help…"

Devereaux nodded, saying warmly, "You've done so much already."

He came forwards, holding out his hand. The two men shook hands, exchanging a glance as they did so.

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me Christopher."

The young man smiled and nodded. Foyle turned and let himself be led out of the cells. He loosened his tie as he walked, his throat feeling constricted. His hands were shaking. Once outside he leaned against the bonnet of his car, breathing heavily. He had hoped this meeting with James would bring relief; that it would be an end to this whole affair.

Foyle now realised that was not the case. He ran his hand over his face once before jamming his hat on his head and squaring his shoulders. Going across the road to a telephone box, Foyle chewed his cheek grimly._ Milner's got one more arrest to make before the day is through…._


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This chapter has some graphic war related scenes.

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

**1917**

The only way forwards was movement and falling into the duty he had been given as Captain. Foyle had more than enough to do before he and his unit shipped off, and he was nearly glad to finally be on the way to the continent. Distance and duty; that would surely keep the unrelenting fog of emotion at bay, he decided.

They were rather a motley crew, and the men seemed to be getting younger and younger. _The only ones left really_, Foyle thought. Private William "Bat" Balcomb, from Battle, Sussex came to them when A and B companies joined to go to Belgium. He was all elbows and knees, ears still too big for him and spots on his face. Hair curly and blond, he had a wide, laughing smile. He looked hardly a day over sixteen, though he adamantly tried to assure them he was eighteen. His father bred horses and it was the boy's greatest desire to be a jockey. Or to play cricket for England. He was wild about both, driving the others in his unit spare with endless talk of wickets, bowls, and his encyclopaedic knowledge of horse racing.

On the long journey out to the reserve lines, he had introduced himself as "Billy Balcomb from Battle," and the other men had laughed at him for both his naivety and his enthusiasm. Foyle's lieutenant, Frederick Morris, never one to be easy on the younger troops, called him "Batty Billy", impatient with his endless talk.

When the lieutenant's harshness continued into the first week at the reserve camp, Foyle was surprised to find himself feeling slightly sorry for the boy. Deciding to keep an eye on him, Foyle took him under his wing.

"You can be my sort of Batman, if you like, Balcomb. It wouldn't be much, but it would keep you out of trouble."

"Work with you, sir? I'd like that, sir. I'm sorry about the Lieutenant. I can't understand it."

Foyle had grinned, "Morris? Oh, well he's more of a football man, you see. Can't stand cricket."

Morris had thought Foyle's idea slightly sceptical, but after a few weeks when Balcomb had shown his prowess with lobbing Mills bombs, and his overall mettle and easy manner, "Batty Billy" became affectionately shortened to "Bat".

Morris grudgingly admitted he was a crack shot when it came to the Mills.

"Bowling, sir," Bat had explained.

"What?"

"Bowling. I'm my cricket team's _bowler_, sir."

"Well, bugger me…" Morris had muttered, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

They'd all had a good laugh at that, but at last Bat was firmly admitted to the brotherhood of proper soldiering, and although still the baby of the group, was no longer treated like one.

For all his endless chatter and tireless enthusiasm, Foyle really liked the boy and often took time to make sure he was looking after himself. They all rubbed along well enough, and by the time they moved up to the support lines, Morris and Foyle had quite a decent unit. They all looked after each other, and there was a warmth of camaraderie that grew up quickly between them.

Lieutenant Frederick Morris was a sharp tempered man in his early thirties, rather stout and short, but he was damned good at soldiering and knew the equipment like the back of his own hand. He was an expert scrounger, and they were never in want of spare parts or an extra bottle of whiskey. Foyle felt quite grateful to him, and was glad to have him standing by him as his lieutenant.

Foyle was also relieved his new position hadn't made him an outsider. He was fair, but he also believed in discipline. It helped a man keep his head and it created an indifference to danger. If a man was focused and engrossed in his task, he was certain to be more efficient. Efficiency, Foyle decided, was the only way to survive.

They moved around a lot at first, in and around Ypres. It was not until August that they moved north of a slight ridge — then they learnt the significance a few inches of ground might make with an advantage. Things began to worsen from there; it was a scrabble…a desperate feeling of hanging on.

In the very few quiet moments Foyle had, his thoughts were never far from Caroline. If he thought about her his whole body seemed to freeze — better to keep moving and not think. Worrying about the men was easier than worrying about himself. He felt on the edge of a hysteria that he was constantly quenching. While he looked after his men closely, there was a recklessness about him when the skirmishing began. In quiet moments of desperation, when his spirits sank so very low, he hoped a bullet might claim him swiftly. The petty and self pitying thought of, _that will show her_, often came to mind, and he hated himself for such weakness.

The destruction that continued around him was hard to bear, but equally, his own dispirited dejection made it all the more intolerable. He was grateful for the distraction of the charge of his men, the mountains of paperwork and forms that seemed to come with being an officer, and the routine they were conditioned to. Foyle threw his energy into his duty to his men, but shirked looking after himself. It left him ragged and he thought it wouldn't be long before something gave, though he dreaded the thought of Home and Leave.

He dreamt of her and woke angry at himself for letting her go. Thoughts of going to find her, having a stand off with Sir Charles and whisking her and the child away to safety often came to him in these half conscious moments of waking. It stung his pride. Any hope he tried to conjure was soon gone however, and 'pistols at dawn' faded into oblivion. He'd have to be alive for all that, and she had sent him away to what he thought of as a certain death. Why else would she have gone back to Sir Charles? She must believe he wouldn't last the winter.

_Yes, Caroline, you've sent me to die…though I feel already dead…  
><em>

* * *

><p>Before they went up the lines, Foyle agreed with the men that a few hours in the nearby village would be acceptable.<p>

"I want you all back by 9 o'clock. We've got an early start and I want you all sober."

A chorus of "Yes, sir", and grinning faces greeted him, and he grinned back. "And I'm not bloody well buying, so bring your pennies."

They walked into the village as night was coming on. Foyle watching the others carefully, more interested in their enjoyment than his own. He wouldn't have minded staying behind and having a rest, but he didn't want to be alone where his thoughts might catch up with him.

The tavern was already crawling with other infantry men; a sea of brown cloth with intermittent flashes of white of the working women. Foyle followed his men through the crowd. Morris was plonking a glass in front of Bat as he came up behind them.

"Don't get him drunk, Fred."

Morris grinned wickedly, "Wouldn't dream of it. Boy's got to learn to drink though."

Bat looked at Morris a little anxiously. "I say, sir, I don't think I'd like to be drunk."

Morris clapped him on the shoulder, "Don't worry about that, we'll look after you. And we'll find you a woman too." He laughed as if having made a joke and Bat looked uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure, sir…"

Foyle arched his eyebrows, "Take care, Fred. I want a useful unit tomorrow, not a half dead one."

"Half dead already, aren't we?" Morris shot back, raising his glass. "All right, we'll go easy, sir."

Foyle nodded and left them to it, finding a seat at a table in the corner to sip his drink and smoke a cigarette. He could watch quietly from here; he had no energy to be a part of the throng, and he only wished his brain might turn off so he could rest properly.

Sergeant Ian Lowe came past with another drink, but didn't stay long, his eye caught by a woman across the room. Then some of the others joined him; before Foyle knew it, he had drunk quite a lot and was beginning to feel light headed. A young woman came up to the table, white dress clinging to her many curves. She touched Foyle's arm and he looked up into blue eyes. She looked nothing like Caroline, but his mind thought of her at once. Nodding her head, she held out her hand to him. Foyle looked around, but he was alone again at the table. She spoke to him in Flemish, but Foyle shook his head to indicate he didn't understand her.

He tried French instead. "_Je ne comprends pas…_"

"Come with me, soldier?" she asked, smiling invitingly at him.

"_Non, non, merci…_"

"Come," she said again. She continued to smile at him, and Foyle felt drawn in.

He shrugged, "Yes, all right."

She led him towards the back and then up a narrow flight of stairs. He stumbled once or twice, the drinks beginning to take real effect.

Her hands were calloused and it occurred to him that she was most likely the daughter of a local Flemish farmer. _How we all try to survive…_ He let himself be guided into a shabby room lit only by a candle. Her hands were already at his trousers and Foyle tried to give himself over to some sort of desire.

He could smell the stale sweat of himself as he peeled off his uniform's jacket. Life to him now was stale and his mind was numb, his actions only motions to be gone through: the daily routine, the marching, drinking, even this now…only motions. He kissed her roughly, pushing her down on to the bed behind her. A flame of anger licked at his brain, and his hands that tugged at her white dress were harsh and cold. He felt the young woman shudder underneath him. It gave him pause, thinking perhaps he was frightening her. Her eyes were dead and without sparkle; spirit crushed much like his own.

Foyle stepped away from her quickly and sat down with a thump, head in his hands. The anger had given way to sadness and shame, and his shoulders began to shake. Try as he might, he could not forget _her_. No amount of drink, no other women…he could not let her go. Though it had been months, the pain felt as fresh as ever. The young woman sat up, dress hanging off one shoulder, putting her arms around him.

"_Maakt niet uit_," she murmured quietly, reassuring him that it did not matter.

His silent sobs broke and he began to cry in earnest, a strangled sound coming from deep within him, face red from behind his fingers.

"_Shh, wat is het_?" Her voice had become soft and real in seeing his distress and when Foyle looked up, the light of life had come back into her eyes. He slumped into her arms, hand over his face to stifle the tears.

She gathered him up to her, rocking him, "_Arme man…_" she whispered. Poor, poor man. Foyle let himself be soothed — her purpose of bringing him here not entirely gone to waste.

* * *

><p><strong>August 1917<strong>

Bat stood shivering against the earthen wall, teeth chattering uncontrollably from an inner cold — a cold brought on by a constant fear. Foyle saw him in the half light of morning, and felt a sudden pity. The boy was on guard duty again; only yesterday he'd returned to the dug out, drenched to the skin, teeth chattering like they were now. Foyle had rolled out of his bed and made the boy get in after putting on dry clothes. Bat had a thick cricket jumper, the knitted wool now a dull and dirty cream, and Foyle had made sure he'd pulled it on before he got into the warm bag.

"No use to me if you catch your death from this rain," Foyle had said firmly.

The unit had come up to the front lines only yesterday. It was always a hectic time as they took charge of a trench, relieving the other men and preparing for the next push. The place seemed to heave, men coming from the most unlikely places along the zig-zag trench. The place stank like something rotten from the week long rain, and if a man stepped off the duck boards he was likely to be in over his boots in mud.

The artillery guns had gotten stuck half way up the line, and communications, were as ever, hit and miss. Bat had helped with the horses pulling the heavy loads, familiar with how to lead them and urge them on. Foyle had received the orders: the push was to be the next day or the day after.

"If they were a bit more definite, we might actually get somewhere," he had said crossly to Morris, chucking down the papers on the table in the main dugout.

And now here they were, day of the push upon them. A runner had brought the confirmation under the cover of darkness; it was to happen at 7:30, before the Bosche began the "breakfast shelling". They had two hours to go.

Foyle went up to Bat, tipping back his tin hat to better see the boy. "Anything to report, Private?"

"No, sir."

Foyle looked carefully over the parapet from where they stood, but he saw only grey shadows and rain. It was as if the world had been blurred at the edges.  
>He ducked back down, holding out a cigarette before lighting his own.<p>

"Another two hours."

"Yes, sir."

They were alone in this corner of the trench: Shaftesbury Avenue, they called it, having given each communications line a name after a road in London. Surrounded only by mud, it was quiet save the soft pattering of rain. It seemed to unnerve Bat as much as the shelling. The Bosche had kept up a regular stream of strafing during recent nights, peppering the parapets and lobbing grenades about every half hour. He had grown noticeably worse in the last week: more jumpy. Foyle had put it down to tiredness. They all could do with a decent sleep; in proper beds…with soft women to wake up to._ Caroline, where are you this rotten morning?_

He took a deep drag on his cigarette. Bat was having trouble lighting his, and Foyle reached into his pocket again to pull out his lighter. Their fingers touched and after the cigarette was lit, Bat reached out to grip Foyle's arm tightly. "Chris," he began, his voice small.

A sudden careening sound, deep and guttural drowned out his words.

"Bloody Bosche seeing if we're awake," Foyle muttered, ducking as a cascade of earth rained around them.

Bat's eyes went wide and his other hand grasped Foyle's heavy Greatcoat. He was nearly scrabbling at the other man, and Foyle felt alarmed.

"Easy, Bat," he said putting an arm on the boy's shoulder.

"I can't stand it, Chris," Bat said, "I feel like jelly inside."

_He seems like jelly too_, Foyle thought, _shaking and shivering like that_. Foyle wasn't sure what to say at first.

"You will stand it. You must. We'll get through it, you'll see," he said finally.

Bat shook his head, tears springing up from his eyes, streaking through the dirt on his face. "You may, but I won't."

"That's a silly thing to say, Bat. None of us know what will happen."

Bat looked down, eyes closing in despair, and Foyle found himself putting an arm around the boy, patting his shoulder. Bat still gripped his coat, as if afraid to let go.

"I'm not a coward, honest, Chris."

"I know you aren't, Bat."

Bat raised his head, leaning in suddenly and putting his mouth near Foyle's ear, "I'm afraid…not of dying, but of the pain of it all…"

The boy's nose nudged Foyle's cheek, head eventually resting under his chin. Foyle shifted away from the sudden intimacy, but said quietly, "Stick close to me when the time comes, and you'll be all right."

Foyle saw him nod. Then Bat added in an awful, grave yet childlike voice, "Will you put me out of it, like we do with the horses…if I'm badly hit?"

Shuddering, Foyle stepped away and said more sharply than he intended, "Don't talk such nonsense. You'll be fine. Now buck up, before your long face affects the others."

Bat rubbed his face and squared his shoulders as best he could. "Sorry…"

"They'll all be stirring now. It's time to write letters and have a bite…you've got some paper?"

The boy nodded. Foyle softened, "Hang in there, Bat. We all need each other to be strong now and keep going. We'll be back in time for tea — you'll see. I'll send Lowe up so you can come get something to eat. All right?"

He nodded again and Foyle walked back along the trench towards the dugout, feeling worried. The boy's face haunted him; he had looked so ghastly.

Sat at the table, oil lamp burning softly, Foyle picked up his pen. He wrote to his parents, and after checking his watch, he began another letter. He wasn't sure why he wrote it, but the words came all the same.

_My Dearest Caroline,_  
><em>I stood looking out over the grey and thought of you this morning. Where were you? In bed, asleep? Our child moving under your hand? I shall never believe otherwise; it reminds me, you see, of a normal life beyond the wire and mud. What was peacetime like? I can't remember. There's a push on — it's been raining non-stop, and I feel half drowned and wonder if I shall make it. I don't know if I want to anymore. I will think of you and the child as I always do before we push onwards. You told me once, do you remember, that you were my heart and that you would for evermore be in the blood in my veins. You shall always be a part of me, my darling. If my blood soaks this Belgian field, and I am to never see you again in this life, you and I will perhaps again be one. Perhaps in death, which I have been so steadfastly denied, I can return to you and the days of peace we found. To walk beside you in the shadows and watch our child grow.<em>

_I imagine my father coming to tell you the news; these letters never make it in decent time…your butler will announce him: 'Sergeant Foyle' and you will think it's me, and he's just misheard the rank. But it will be poor old Dad come to tell you I've died; he'd feel compelled to do so, I know him. They'll all tell you it was a worthy death, but don't believe them. It's awful; no glory and no sense. I feel it in my bones, Caroline. We have come this far, but I don't believe it will last. Not this push. And my men…their blood will be on my hands, you see. I can't seem to feel anything any more — I've even begun to forget what it's like to be clean and dry; the fire within me is dying, Caroline, and yet I love you so strongly sometimes I feel I might burst from the feeling._

Foyle broke off suddenly as Morris came in with his breakfast. "Half an hour, sir."

He nodded, looking at his watch. "Half an hour. Right. The men getting up and ready?"

"Yes. Pack of nerves mostly, Chris. This damned rain — making everyone jumpy."

"Had a look over earlier, can't see a blasted thing."

Morris nodded gravely, "We're to regroup with Parker's unit by the wood, but we can't even bloody see it from here."

Foyle thrust the unfinished letter into his pocket and pushed his breakfast to one side, drawing out the map they had pored over the night before.

Morris swore. "It'll be like a soup out there."

The two men looked at each other and Foyle sucked his teeth. Both desensitised for the most part, there was instead an edge of frustration of the logistical side of things. They wanted to do a thing properly: Morris couldn't stand to have things done shoddily, and nor could Foyle. He stood, nodding towards the doorway.

"Come on."

"Words of wisdom?"

"Never been much good at that…" Foyle chewed his lip in agitation.

At twenty past seven, the men stood in their lines. Foyle went up and down, checking their guns and equipment. He gave them each a nip of whiskey to warm them against the rain. Stopping beside Bat, he nodded to the boy.

"Stick by me," he said in a low voice.

The rain poured off their helmets. He went up two rungs on the wooden ladder, taking a last look over his men. Reminded of chess pieces, Foyle wondered how they all stuck it. If they all turned tail and went home — the Bosche too— would there be anything to fight over? He tried not to think of the light in their eyes that may soon be gone. They seemed so small and vulnerable as they looked up at him, faces pinched and white. He felt his bowels clench unpleasantly.

"Fix bayonets!" he ordered in a voice that sounded unlike his own.

The clattering soon subsided and it felt as if they all held their breaths as one. Standing there in the mud and rain, they seemed like some creatures from an underworld, come up out of the earth to find themselves in hell. Tightening the grip on the whistle with his lips, Foyle checked his watch. _Now_. He blew a lungful of air through it, a tinny sound shrieking over them. Up and over and then he was running, pistol held out before him. His mind went numb and all thought stopped, action taking over.

It became a blur of brown — uniformed men racing forwards, mud and clods of earth raining about them as first one explosion, then another crashed around them. _They bloody knew we were coming…_Foyle swore out loud between pants of breath. A tree was flaming against the grey. With the rain they could not see very far ahead. The mud clutched at their boots — the ground seeking to return them to the place whence they had come.

Looking across, he saw Bat beside him, panting hard, the others advancing with them side by side. Morris was yelling and Foyle wondered how he had the breath for it. Whistling and zipping bullets went past them. He heard shouts, followed by cries of pain and he felt a flush of panic. A cry came from somewhere to his right, and then another. A shell went off ahead of them to their left, and Foyle ducked instinctively. He looked again at Bat, who was keeping pace with him marvellously. The noise around them was immense.

Another boom echoed, followed by sharp whistling. Bat cried out, stumbling. At the same moment the ground beneath Foyle's feet seemed to open and he felt his stomach fly into his throat as he lost his footing and went tumbling forwards. Something heavy careened into him from behind and his vision went dark.

It was the cold rain on his face that restored him to consciousness. He heard far off muffled sounds. It sounded as if he were underwater and though he shook his head, his ears still rang. There was something sticking into his back and he tried to shift. A low groan, more horrible than anything Foyle had ever heard before sounded behind him. He sat up, squinting through the rain.

"Bat!" he cried, clambering to his knees.

Moving next to the young lad who was half buried in mud and dirt, Foyle realised a shell had gone off in front of them, caving the ground. They must have tumbled in. He looked up briefly, _the battle is up there…how long have we been here?_ He felt a moment's fright at being discovered by the enemy and he quickly turned his attention back to Bat.

"Can you hear me, Bat?" he fairly shouted in the boy's face, his ears still ringing. He thought his voice sounded distorted.

Bat's eyes flickered. "Chris? Help me, Chris."

"I'm here, Bat, I'm here."

Foyle undid the strap of the boy's helmet and tugged it off gently. He put the back of his hand against his mouth reflexively as he saw the blood that had pooled in the helmet. His blond curls were now all red.

"Bat?" he croaked, not sure of what to do.

Bat didn't answer but looked at him with eyes that begged _no more, please_.

"We'll get you out of here, Bat, don't worry," Foyle said with a conviction he did not feel. He looked about wildly for any help, but only dead men lay around them. He felt hopeless and terribly alone, and his hands began to shake. The instinct to live suddenly rushed through him however, and he swallowed back the bile that was beginning to form in the back of his throat.

Bat's hand, slick with warm blood, found Foyle's, gripping it weakly, and he knew he could not leave the boy to go for help. He heard still the far off sounds of battle and Foyle swore mightily, mostly for Bat — his face had gone a deathly white and his eyes looked strange. The boy's lips were moving, so Foyle leant down to hear him.

"Like the horses, Chris…"

Foyle shook his head, "Not yet, my lad. You hang in there." He grasped the boy's shoulders to pull him upright — he would carry him out if he had to. Bat shrieked and as the dirt fell away from him, his flesh under his left arm seemed to give way.

Foyle turned away and dry retched, stomach heaving upwards emptily… the poor boy had been practically disembowelled.

"I'm sorry, Bat," Foyle cried, gritting his teeth. Putting one of his hands over the wound, Foyle lifted him ever so gently to free him from the blanket of earth. Foyle took off his belt and tried to bind the boy's uniform to his side to hold back the flow. Bat's eyes had closed and Foyle hoped he had lost consciousness so he wouldn't feel the pain.

Whispering to him the entire time, Foyle carefully lifted him into his arms. He made for the direction of the planned regroup to the West, thankful for having pored over the maps so carefully with Morris.

With each step Foyle murmured over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

It was the last thing he remembered before the world went dark again.

* * *

><p>AN: This takes place around the Third Battle of Ypres; I've made a generalisation of the battle here rather than base this chapter on a specific one. I'm grateful to our guide at the Ypres Salient who so tirelessly explained what went on and showed us just how much difference a few centimetres of ground could make…


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**August 1945**

The sea breeze whipped the loose strands of her hair around her face and she smiled to feel it. She was on her own and off to meet her love for lunch, both hands free, no clamouring child, and a clean dress: for a few hours at least, a bit of time for herself and Christopher was just what they needed. Sam felt slightly guilty for feeling so inordinately pleased about having a moment for herself, but she reasoned that being at the end of her tether would do neither Connie nor Christopher any good.

She walked towards the sea front to meet him as they had planned. She hoped it had gone well for him, and she was eager to hear what had happened with James. Catching sight of him, she at first quickened her stepped, then slowed, seeing his stance. He was stood looking out over the pebble beach towards the sea, hands thrust deeply in his pockets, hat pushed back on his forehead. He had all his weight on his left leg and he was chewing his cheek in thought.

_Oh dear, what's happened…_

"Christopher?"

He pivoted, looking around at her, ducking his head and smiling softly. "Hallo, my love."

"Everything all right?"

"Yes."

She touched his arm questioningly and he sighed.

"Um, _no_, actually."

Sam was startled to see the anger in his face. He sucked at his teeth, choosing his words carefully.

"James should be out in a few days." He paused.

"Then what's the trouble?" Sam asked in bewilderment. She could nearly feel the heat of his frustration emanating from his body, and she put her arm through his. It was at times like this that she wished he would just shout, rather than express this quiet anger.

"He, er, told me…" Foyle swallowed hard, "about his mother's death. It wasn't, um, an accident."

He bit his lip and Sam gripped his arm, "Oh Christopher…"

"Milner will be back at two o'clock or thereabouts, the station said. I've left a message to ask him to meet me at White Friars."

Sam looked away towards the water. "You don't mean Sir Charles…"

"Yes."

"How _awful_."

A sudden sadness washed over her, and she leaned against him. _Poor Christopher…poor James…_ She understood his anger; he must feel so vulnerable, learning about the true nature of her death this way. Sam realised his grief was not yet over concerning Caroline, which in turn made her sad. She had hoped he would be able to put it all behind him by helping James secure his freedom, but it was clear that it had only drawn him in deeper.

"Sorry, Sam."

She turned back to him, "Why?"

"Ruined our lunch, haven't I?"

She sniffed and patted his arm, "Nevermind… fish and chips, and a walk?"

"Fish and chips it is."

They moved away arm in arm, and Sam added softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure. It makes me so terribly angry, and yet so sad. I feel powerless."

"But you _are_ going to do something about it. Plus you've helped James when no one else could. You are anything but powerless, Christopher. You're a... well, a marvel, really."

"A bit late though…"

"Not for James — he has a chance at a life now. _You've_ given him that chance." She paused a moment before adding, "Did you tell him?"

"Well, not in so many words…I didn't like to…well, I just felt that…" Foyle broke off, chewing his lip. "I want it to be his choice; it's his life. I was honest, certainly."

"Well, that's all one can ask." She pressed against his arm comfortingly. "It will all sort itself out."

"Yes, I suppose it will."

They walked on, Foyle preoccupied with his thoughts.

"I should warn you that Andrew was miffed that you left before he was up. Thinks you're avoiding him."

"Does he now?"

Sam smiled, "He's awfully suspicious…I can't _imagine_ who he gets that from…"

Foyle gave her a ghost of a smile and nodded towards the fish stand. "Plaice or Haddock, Mrs Foyle?"

* * *

><p><strong>August 1917<strong>

A soft voice was speaking beside him. Coming to slowly, Foyle turned his head to see who it was. A very young man with slightly red hair and spectacles sat next to him, a white dog collar under his tunic indicating he was a priest. His head was bowed and he was praying softly.

"Am I that bad, Padre?" Foyle croaked, putting a hand to his face.

The young man looked up in surprise before breaking into a grin. "Indeed not, Captain Foyle." He had a soft lilt to his voice and he spoke pleasantly.

"Where am I?"

"By the temporary ADS; on the other side of the wood."

Foyle looked around him. _An advanced dressing station…_ He felt a cool breeze ruffling his hair and it all suddenly came back to him: _Bat!_

"The boy, Padre? Private Balcomb?"

The young man looked at Foyle gravely. "Private Balcomb is dead. I'm very sorry."

Foyle nodded mutely.

"You carried him quite far, Captain. The stretcher boys found you just on the edge of the wood and brought you both the rest of the way. You were out of it, but muttering and kicking when they tried to move you. They asked me to sit with you for a bit…"

Foyle nodded again. "Couldn't they do anything for the boy?"

The other man shifted uncomfortably. "He was already dead when they picked you both up. I think it would have been quick."

Foyle rubbed his forehead, "I tried…" he broke off, words catching in his throat.

"You were brave to carry him here," the young man said kindly, pushing his spectacles further up his thin nose. "He would have been glad of it, I'm sure."

"Why am _I_ here," Foyle asked, confused, "Am I injured." He looked down at the dried blood on his uniform and hands.

"Not as far as they could tell. Just out of it for a bit. Probably exhaustion." He stood, reaching for a bowl of water and a towel. "Would you like to clean up?"

"My men?" Foyle asked, sitting upright. He felt a sudden guilt washing over him.

"Not sure yet."

"I should try to find them."

"Why not wash first? The battle is over and the stretcher boys are doing are doing their job. They will regroup here or be brought in."

Foyle nodded and dipped his hands in the cool water. Bat's blood swirled outwards from his palms.

"I tried to keep him safe," he began, "he was just a boy."

"You did all you could, I'm sure," the padre said. "He died for his country—"

"There is no comfort in that," Foyle said roughly. "He shouldn't have been here in the first place."

"Should any of us?" The padre sighed under his breath.

"He was too young, I know it."

"But he wanted to fight, did he not?"

"He was the most enthusiastic of us all." Foyle pulled his hands from the bowl; rusty red remaining in lines of his palms. "Silly sod."

The padre handed him a towel.

"Where do you fit in all of this?"

"Part of the 1st Battalion Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Call me Finn."

"Aren't there others in need of your assistance?"

The young man gave a wry smile, "_They_ can wait, Captain Foyle."

He understood the man's meaning, and swallowed hard. _How many haven't made it? Where are the rest of my unit?_

"I really should try to do something about my men."

"There is a sergeant with a list somewhere."

"Then I'll start there."

"Would you allow me to accompany you, sir?"

Foyle gave him a sidelong glance. "Have you been charged with keeping an eye on me, Padre?"

"No, indeed not. But, and I hope you will pardon me for saying so, Captain Foyle, you look like a man in need of a talk."

Foyle gave a huff of exasperation, but said nothing, moving slowly away. Finn took off his spectacles and patiently rubbed them clean with a silk handkerchief, following Foyle quietly.

Chewing his cheek, Foyle said hesitantly, pausing in his step, "I feel unworthy…why should I live and they die? Why should they be taken when it is I who wanted—" he stopped, looking away.

"Perhaps God has spared you for a reason."

Foyle huffed again, unsure.

"Besides, you've got your other men to think about."

"But why take Bat?" Foyle's voice cracked and he swallowed. "Why take one so young?"

"Why take any of us?"

Foyle shook his head, "Where is God in all this mess, eh?"

"Oh, He's here all right. With us all, on both sides."

"He doesn't choose sides…how nice…" Foyle grumbled. "And you, Padre — do you fight in His name?"

"I try to bring comfort and assistance to my brothers in Christ, Captain, and I pray daily for those we battle with."

"Pray that we win?"

He hesitated, "I'm meant to say that God is on our side and we are embarking on a righteous endeavour. I'm meant to tell the men who are invalided home to shame any man who has not enlisted…but I do not, Captain Foyle. I do not believe in using God as a lever or incentive."

"Must make _you_ popular with those in charge…"

He smiled, "Ah well, we are not here to be popular or to spout political agenda. Or we shouldn't be. I am here on God's mission to bring comfort and support. You see, I pray for their souls instead — our men and our enemies; I pray that the damage we cause each other may be restrained. I pray for divine justice. We are meant to _love_ our enemies; Paul writes in his letter to the Romans for instance, that we should feed them if they are hungry; give them drink if they are thirsty. We are meant to love our neighbours too. To overcome evil with good."

"And look where it got Paul... it's all very well and good," Foyle began somewhat hotly, "but how are we meant to love our enemies when they are shelling us to pieces?"

"If we pray for them as well as ourselves, might it not be over sooner?"

Foyle shrugged.

"Would you like me to pray with you, Captain?"

"The Lord and I are not on such great terms at the moment."

"No matter. He listens either way. He will hear you when perhaps you least expect it."

"I'm not so sure," Foyle said, more to himself. "I didn't die…"

"Perhaps because you still have more to do on this earth. You see, Captain Foyle, perhaps this is another chance. You can use this to do good; to go on and be strong for your men; to live as best you can for young Balcomb. It would be a good way to serve his memory, would it not?"

"Your faith must be stronger than mine, Padre. I'm not sure I can see it as clearly as you do."

Finn gave a small chuckle, "Ah, well, faith is a whole other thing, my friend. But think of it like this: it is not up to us to choose our lives, but we _can_ decide on how to live them — what to do with what we've been given…grief or happiness."

He added, "Why did you want to die?"

Foyle sighed, staring at his hands, rubbing his thumb over the red stains that would not wash out. "I am in love with a married woman, Padre; she is most likely carrying my child and she has left me to go back to her marriage."

Breathing through his nose heavily, Finn nodded grimly. "I see. Is it not perhaps best that she tries to restore her marriage?"

"You would say that of course."

"Yes, but if this is her decision too, then surely you must see it is for the best."

Foyle shook his head, not wanting to accept the other man's words. "What can I do?" he asked at last, frowning against the pain welling up inside him.

Finn smiled kindly at him, "I cannot tell you what to do, friend. I can advise you, of course, but ultimately it will be your decision. To go back now and disrupt her life may well bring more pain than good."

With a fist against his mouth, Foyle nodded and bit back the tears that were threatening to spill over.

"I hope you can take comfort in the love of God; it's unconditional and nothing you do will change it. But Captain, God's love is also, you see, the light that cannot be extinguished. He will light our way in the darkness we feel."

Finn patted Foyle's arm and tried to smile encouragingly.

Foyle only shook his head, "I don't think I know the difference any more, Padre."

"I will pray for you."

Foyle stood straighter, nodding towards the group of men coming out of the trees. "Pray for these men, Padre. They need it far more than me."

He turned back, saying over his shoulder, "You will give the boy a proper burial, won't you, Padre?"

"I will."

Foyle nodded and walked swiftly towards the group, eyes scanning each face for sign of his men. His heart leapt into his throat when he recognised Morris' face, bloodied and dirty though it was.

"Fred!" he called over the heads of the others. "Fred Morris!"

The other man looked up and caught sight of Foyle. He held a bandage to his shoulder, and Foyle saw blood already seeping out between his fingers.

"You all right, Fred?" Foyle asked earnestly.

Morris looked at him with a ghastly face, "Half of bloody England is out there, Chris." He slumped against Foyle's arm weakly. "Oh God help us…"

Foyle put an arm around him, helping him towards the makeshift dressing station. Spotting the red haired chaplain assisting the stretcher bearers, Foyle muttered, "Yes, God…_help us_… 

Foyle had perhaps heard the padre's words at the right moment. There came a slow dawning of realisation that a life without Caroline looked very likely; he had always felt he would do anything for her, and if that was to do as she asked and never see her again, well, what was he to do? It burned in his gut, the thought of her so far away and with another man. It would have been easier perhaps if he thought she was in any way happy, but he couldn't quite convince himself that it was so.

Either way, the death of the boy, Bat, had a profound effect on the other men and the story of Foyle carrying him across the fields earned him great respect. After the funeral, which the padre had done beautifully, Foyle took himself in hand and reasoned that the Irishman had been right. He would have to live purposefully for Bat and all the others who had fallen. To do otherwise would be an injustice.

The days of endless struggle wore on and when the time came, on a soggy day in November, that the fighting was at last to cease, Foyle took a long hard look at himself. He had been given a chance to go on with life, and in that was a certain thankfulness. The padre had said he had been spared possibly for a reason; what if there was still some good left to be done? He wouldn't take up bowling for England or racing around the last post like poor old Bat might have done, but there _was_ a job waiting for him in Hastings. A job that _needed_ to be done by men who put justice at the top of their priorities. Foyle considered that being a policeman might just bring some sort of justice back into the world.

He would go on for those he'd left behind; it was all he could do with any sort of certainty.

* * *

><p><strong>December 1918<strong>

"_Comprends_? No, no, not there. Put them here. Here, I say! _Ici_! Savvy? Oh bloody hell. Foyle!"

Foyle turned as he heard his name, trying not to laugh at the other man's communication difficulties.

"Look, you speak the lingo, don't you? Be a brick, would you, and sort these chaps out?"

"What seems to be the problem, sir?"

"Don't speak a word of bloody English. Think we had been here long enough." The other man threw up his arms. "These," he jabbed a forefinger at a load of crates, "need to go there."

Foyle quickly spoke to the men and they did as indicated.

"You headed home at last?" the man asked, handing him a cigarette and lighting his own.

"Yes, sir."

"Well out of it, lucky bugger. Strange to think of Blighty waiting for us across the water…"

Foyle thanked him and continued his wander through the base camp. They were sailing that evening at last. It was cold and the air felt damp with the morning's rain and the sea so nearby, and it hadn't quite sunk in for him that it was all over. That it would be Christmas in just two weeks. His first Christmas at home in years…

He collected all his paperwork, made sure his men had theirs, and went aboard as the sun was setting. It was crowded and soon became hot inside the ship. Men lay about playing cards or sleeping. Some looked a little green and kept ducking outside. Eventually, Foyle got up, wanting to feel fresh air on his face and to watch for England's shoreline. The deck's were less crowded, mostly men smoking or being sick over the side. He went up to the front where it was quiet and he leaned against the railing, sighing heavily.

"Feeling queer?" a voice asked.

Foyle jumped, spinning around quickly. A man stood in the shadows smoking. He stepped towards Foyle, holding out his cigarette case.

"Sorry, old man, didn't mean to make you jump. Cigarette?"

"Thanks." Foyle took one, eyeing the other man curiously. He had eyes full of humour and a weathered face, though he wasn't much older than Foyle himself. Tall as he was, he seemed to move with the pitching of the ship, as if it were second nature. Noticing the Navy uniform, Foyle said, "And thanks for the lift. Strange to think we'll be Home soon."

"Yes, isn't it?"

The man came to stand beside Foyle, looking out over the dark water, listening to it rush beneath them.

"You've knocked about a bit, I suppose. Seen some action."

"More than enough for a lifetime."

"I'm Howard, by the way, Charles Howard." He left out his rank as if, at last, this were unimportant.

He stuck out his hand and Foyle shook it. "Name's Foyle. Christopher Foyle." It felt strange not to include _Captain_ after all this time. The use of his full Christian name was conscious though; it was time to go back to who he had once been, to shed the skin that had grown upon him in this war. He was no longer Chris, the soldier and lover of a married woman. He was a policeman from Hastings once more.

"Your people waiting for you?"

"Yes. Dispersal centre in Dover first — more paperwork and such, and then they'll give me my ticket home."

"And where's home, Foyle?"

"Hastings. You?"

"Up Guildford way. I've got my kid sister and mother waiting. Haven't seen them in ages. She'll be all grown up now."

He spoke with obvious pride and affection and Foyle found himself asking, "What's her name?"

"Rosalind."

Foyle nodded, thinking it was a pretty name.

"You sticking it out in the army?"

"Heaven's no. I'll go back to being a policeman."

Charles Howard smiled broadly, "A policeman. That sounds good. I'm staying in the Navy. Always loved the sea."

"I'm more a rivers man."

"Fisherman, I take it?"

"Indeed. Can't wait to get back to it."

He grinned again, "I am as well. You must to come up to our place. The river near us is well stocked."

Foyle smiled, "Very kind."

"Funny to think of it now; it probably hasn't changed a bit. But I have."

"A lot has happened," Foyle agreed.

They stood looking out at the night, smoking companionably.

"I'd better get back to my post," Charles said. "Here, take another to tide you over." He held out the cigarette case again.

"Nice to have met you, Mr Howard."

"Likewise. Remember my offer, won't you?"

Foyle smiled softly, "I will."

* * *

><p><strong>August 1945<strong>

He was shown into the drawing room, hat still in hand, having indicated to Mr Simmons, the butler, that he wouldn't be long. A subtle sense of triumph slipped through him as he came face to face with Sir Charles. _At last…this has been too long in the making…_

Foyle placed his hands behind his back and began.

"It's very good news, Sir Charles, in regard to James."

The older man looked at him hopefully, "What?"

"Well, the verdict, that is to say the _death penalty_," Foyle said smoothly, "is certain to be overturned."

Jane clasped her husband's arm and breathed, "Oh darling, that's wonderful."

He nodded, "It's more than I could have hoped."

Turning back to Foyle, Jane added, "But how…how did this happen?"

"He decided to speak. And though there are various procedures to go through, we believe he will be released very soon in light of what he has said."

Sir Charles sat down with a thump and Jane sat beside him, still holding onto his arm. "Goodness…oh we are so grateful to you, Mr Foyle. Aren't we, Charles?"

Foyle twitched his lip. _You won't be in a moment…_

"The only problem is, Sir Charles," the man looked up to meet Foyle's eyes which glinted icily, "is now you will have to account for your part in all this."

"I don't understand."

"Your son is a very brave man. He joined the British Free Corp to undermine and disrupt, using the freedom it gave him to send intelligence reports back home."

They both smiled and Sir Charles said, "I knew he couldn't have been a traitor."

Jane added, "But why didn't he speak up sooner? At the trial? Why would he want to die?"

Foyle shifted his weight to his other foot and said slowly, "There are those far more qualified than myself to explain this sort of thing, but from what I understand he went missing after the bombing of Dresden: as a result of the nervous collapse he experienced during the bombing, which was itself compounded by the suppressed _traumas_ suffered in his childhood."

There was a moment's silence before Jane said softly, "Would we be talking about the death of his mother?"

Foyle's eyes moved from her face to Sir Charles, the intensity of the gaze in itself staggering. "Would we?"

Sir Charles blanched, but said nothing. Quelling a roar of hot anger, Foyle said with brutal sharpness, "For you are, in fact, responsible, are you not, Sir Charles? It was never an accident. She threatened to leave you; and not for the first time. You stopped her. And James saw it all from the hide."

The overwhelming feeling of understanding of the dangers Caroline had been in now were clear to Foyle. She had known better than any of them just what risk she was taking. Foyle realised that Caroline had loved _him_ so much that she had elected to stay with a man she loathed in order to bring her child — _their child_— into the world in some modicum of safety. Sir Charles may have raised his hand to her in the past, but Caroline knew he would not harm 'his' son — the heir to the Devereaux line. It brought everything into a new light, and made it all the more devastating. Foyle gripped his hat behind his back tightly, scrunching the material between his fingers in agitation.

"Dear God, Charles?" Jane burst out, a sudden look of pure horror crossing her features. She shrank away from her husband, "But you…you said you always loved her? Charles?"

The older man was breathing in heavily through his nose, a far off look coming into his eyes. "I couldn't let her walk out on me…my family doesn't divorce. It's never happened…"

Bursting into silent tears, Jane shook her head, "So you _killed_ her? And James saw it all? Oh, that poor little boy." She stood up abruptly, hurrying from the room.

Foyle felt his throat constrict and he kept his hands behind his back lest the balled fists betray his emotion. He gave the other man a significant look, raising one eye brow. _Checkmate._

Following in Jane's wake, he went from the room, not failing to notice the tears sliding down Sir Charles' face. Whether they were in remorse, Foyle neither knew or cared. Outside on the gravel driveway, Milner was just stepping from his car.

"The station told me," he began breathlessly, thrusting his hat on his head.

"He's inside."

Milner nodded, looking grave.

Foyle, his hands in his pockets, stared out across the park: past the small, lake, the trees, the flowers. _It's over, Caroline. It's truly over._

Milner paused in his hitching step, "I should thank you, sir."

Foyle turned, "Not at all."

The two men shook hands warmly, and Foyle smiled. "You look after yourself, Milner." He nodded with his head towards the young man mooning about beside the car, "You're on your own now."

Milner grinned, "Give my regards to Sam, won't you? I wish _she_ were my driver. I may have to steal her away."

"Don't I know it."

"Goodbye, sir."

Foyle walked away slowly to his own car, letting out a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. It was over.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**August 1945**

Entering his house, Foyle slumped against the door as it shut, feeling suddenly weary. He was therefore not prepared for an unexpected onslaught.

"Where the blazes have you been?"

Foyle looked up quickly. "Andrew?"

To his surprise, Andrew came right up to him, and the entry hall with its hat stand, side table, and Rosalind's watercolours felt all at once cramped.

"Sam goes out to meet you for lunch and comes back even _more_ worried and anxious than she left. And not just that, but I come home yesterday to find her upset and she won't even tell me what's been going on. I mean, _really_, Dad—"

"Let me stop you right there," Foyle said sharply, holding up a hand.

He felt slightly put out that his son was interrogating him about how he was treating _his_ wife, but perhaps Andrew had a right to be annoyed. Moreover, perhaps he had a point.

"I can explain, er, _if_ you give me half a chance."

Andrew glowered for a moment and then shrugged, and Foyle bit back a smile. _If only he knew how he looks like his twelve year old self when he does that…_

Foyle loosened his tie and led Andrew into the lounge. "Sit down." He closed the door behind him and waved to their customary chairs by the fireplace.

"Where are the girls?"

Andrew softened, "Bath time."

Smiling, Foyle nodded and sat down heavily in his chair. Andrew eyed him expectantly and somewhat impatiently.

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Foyle began. "Do you remember when you asked me about the first war?"

Andrew frowned, thinking. "When I was about to be shipped off to my unit, wasn't it? Over breakfast? Just before Sam—" he broke off and coloured, remembering his conceited pass at his father's driver which had been so coolly rebuked.

"You said that I never spoke about it, and I said something like, 'not if I can help it.' You then asked me if I had ever killed anyone…"

"But what's that got to do with—"

Foyle held up his hand again, "Andrew, hear me out." He took a deep breath. "Perhaps I should have talked about it with you — you were going off to war, after all, and yet I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It is different now; you've been through a war yourself."

Picking at a loose thread on his waistcoat, Foyle paused. He looked up, catching his son's eye. "It's time you heard the, er, _full_ story."

The intensity in Foyle's blue eyes made Andrew swallow hard and lean forward on his knees. There was a frightened eagerness in his face, as if he both wanted to hear what his father had to say, but wasn't sure what it might bring to light.

Foyle sat back, crossing his legs, angling himself comfortably to the side of the chair. Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he took a quick breath, steeling himself.

"I was injured in 1917, just after Arras. I was sent home to a hospital in Brighton, and there I met a volunteer nurse…"

Once the words began they came thick and fast, following each other without pause. All the things Foyle had held back came pouring out in a flood of words, very nearly overwhelming his son. Andrew's face went white, his eyes wide, and remained that way as he heard about the passionate love affair; about the deaths of Richard Walsh and the boy, Bat Balcomb; he watched his father struggle to explain the presence of another child, an older brother that had just been saved that day from the hangman's noose. He looked away as Foyle tried to explain the reasons why it had been kept secret. Foyle told his story well: he told it truthfully.

When finally Foyle had spoken his last words, Andrew sat back, face shocked and mind racing. His cheeks became suddenly red and he asked in a hollow voice, "Did Mum know?"

Foyle ducked his head and winced, "No."

"For God's sake, Dad," Andrew said under his breath, angry now. "Does Sam?"

Foyle nodded, causing Andrew to throw up his hands.

"So you've been out saving your first son, leaving Sam to deal with everything on her own?"

"Andrew," Foyle began somewhat reproachfully.

"No, fine."

The young man stood and Foyle saw his hands were shaking with inner anger. "Fine. It's all right for you to keep everything bottled up inside, isn't it? My dad, the respectable Detective Chief Superintendent, never wrong about anything. Well, Dad you're wrong about this. How _could_ you? How could you not tell me after _all_ that has happened?"

He looked genuinely hurt, and Foyle glanced away.

"Didn't I have a right to know? Didn't _Mum_? Hmm? Or are we lesser beings always to be protected by you and only told what you think we're allowed to hear?"

He was working himself up, and Foyle heard the edges of his words cracking with emotion.

"I know I was wrong, Andrew," Foyle said softly, catching his eye.

"Isn't that the truth? You are…" his voice began to rise and shake with the effort, "you are a bloody _selfish_ man, and damned dishonest for not telling _us_ something like this."

Foyle knew he meant his mother, and swallowed hard, feeling his son's hurt like knives against his skin. "I'm sorry. Please try—"

Andrew flung himself out the door of the lounge, "Oh just…chuck it," he said rather childishly over his shoulder. The front door slammed and suddenly the house was still.

"Bugger," Foyle muttered, putting a hand to his face.

A stair tread creaked and he looked through the lounge door to see Sam rising from behind the banister.

"Shall I go after him?" she asked quietly, rubbing her nose.

_Had she heard their argument?_

Foyle shook his head. "Leave him be for now. He's just angry."

He looked up at her guiltily, watching her walk towards him. She was barefoot and wrapped loosely in an old dressing gown, hair slightly damp from being pushed up and out of the way by wet hands. She was tired too.

Coming to kneel by his chair, she took his hand. "Give him time."

Foyle nodded mutely, tracing his thumb over the back of her hand.

Without warning, Sam flung herself towards him, thumping his shoulder with her right fist. Burying her face against his chest, she uttered an angry cry.

"Sam?"

"Don't _ever_ frighten me like this again, Christopher Foyle," came her muffled, angry voice.

He pushed her gently back by the shoulders, cupping her chin to turn her face towards him. She was crying and trying to scowl at him, but it only made her face crumble, and his lips turned downwards with sadness.

"Oh _Sam_. I'm so sorry."

She was crying properly now, words escaping hesitantly through little sobs. "I have been so….so worried…and what if James died…and maybe then you would feel responsible… and… and do something _stupid_….and Connie and I would be left all alone…and I've tried to be understanding…but I hated _her_ for it all…that she loved you first and made you so miserable…but then…"

"Shh," Foyle said soothingly, stroking her hair.

"But then…" Sam continued, pushing away her tears with the heel of her hand, "I felt so guilty…because she died so horribly and _poor James_ was left alone…and Father always said we must help others…and yet I just wanted…I was afraid to lose you…"

"Enough," he said more firmly, pulling her into a deep embrace. "Sam, my darling, I would never do anything to jeopardise what we have. You and Connie and Andrew are _everything_ to me. I want James to be a part of my life — of our lives — but that is his decision. It is enough that an innocent man was saved."

Sam nodded, "I want you to know him…you _both_ deserve it."

Foyle gave a half smile before adding, "And you won't lose me…it's over, Sam — no more dwelling on the past or what might have been. I promise."

"Is it truly over for you?"

"It is. James is safe; Sir Charles has been arrested for what he did; I've done all I could and now I will close the book on it."

"And you really will retire?" she sniffed.

Foyle gave a throaty chuckle, running a forefinger down the line of her cheek. "I will. On my honour."

Sam threw herself further into his arms, holding him tightly. "Keep me close, won't you?"

"More than ever, sweet girl."

He felt her fingers gripping his back, and he was overwhelmed by the intensity of her anxiety. He had underestimated her and it left him feeling small.

"I never thought I'd get a ticking off from _Andrew_ about how to treat my best girl…" Foyle mused over her shoulder. "Oh, I've been a right fool, my darling. Can you forgive me?"

"I do." Sam pulled back, giving a small smile. "Andrew _was_ rather superior just now, wasn't he?"

"He wasn't entirely wrong…"

"No, I just wish he was a bit more self controlled about it," Sam said, shaking her head in some exasperation.

"I shall try to be a better husband…a better father…" he rubbed his forehead self-consciously.

"You can begin by giving me a kiss," Sam teased softly.

He smiled and acquiesced, nudging her nose with his and putting a strong arm around her waist. He was sorry for a lot of things. She knew it and allowed him understanding graciously.

"And you're a wonderful father," she murmured in a low voice. "We've got a little golden haired girl upstairs who thinks you're the best papa-bear there is…"

Foyle kissed her again, lips trembling with emotion. "Love you, Sam."

She smiled, "Love you too, my darling man."

* * *

><p>In the dark Foyle heard a noise and he wondered if it was Andrew returning home. It felt late and his thoughts still swirled wearily. The little noises came again and he recognised them as coming from the crib. Connie was stirring and would be wanting a feed. He turned over and nudged Sam.<p>

"Your daughter is waking up…" he murmured.

"She isn't awake _yet_," Sam muttered sleepily, "may settle…so _do_ be quiet."

But Foyle had been right, recognising her noises, and Sam sat up, giving him a look that seemed to say, _this is your fault_, as if they had been in league against her and her need for sleep. Foyle watched them with half open eyes, heart soaring at the precious image of the two before him.

Connie wouldn't settle even after her feed and Foyle offered to take her. "You sleep, my darling, and I'll see what I can do."

She was crying fretfully and Sam handed the child over gratefully.

On the landing, walking with her against his shoulder, he remembered Andrew. He couldn't be sure his son had come back in, but just in case… "Better not wake the entire house, my girl," he said going downstairs carefully.

He walked around through the lounge, to the kitchen, got a drink of water with one hand, back through the dining room, continually pacing. When she was still crying and beginning to wriggle he came to a decision.

"I'm wide awake and I can wait. I've got all the time in the world," he said to her in a soft voice.

Pulling the pram within arms reach of his work desk, Foyle put her where she could see him. She fussed at this loss of contact, but he shook his head.

"No, it's no good. If we're to be up all night, better keep the mind and hands busy."

He began pulling out his fly tying bits, talking to her softly all the while. She settled slightly, as if curious to hear his words tumble one after the other in such a pleasant timbre. Chewing her fists and dribbling, she made little noises to remind him of her state of unhappiness, but in between, watched his slow movements carefully.

"So you see, my treasure," Foyle said, "if you use this blue bottle here in combination with this fine fellow," he showed her and she gave an unimpressed gurgle, "then we get a useful chap for the larger fish."

He applied the pliers expertly, fingers steady and practised. Then he worked the vice open carefully and plucked the finished fly from it. "See? Isn't he a beauty?"

Connie took one look at it and opened her mouth with a howl, beginning to cry in earnest. Foyle put it swiftly away in the leather case Sam had given him for a wedding present and arched an eyebrow, "Not impressed, eh? Well, my girl, just wait until you see him in action," Foyle took her hand gently in his, "yes, he goes down a treat."

A soft laugh broke in on their little chat and Foyle turned to see Andrew in his dressing gown, leaning against a bookcase.  
>"Wondered what you were up to — didn't you used to tell me all this?"<p>

"Yes — much good that did," Foyle said dryly, putting his things away. "Thought I'd start her off early…"

Andrew lifted the still mildly protesting baby girl from the pram in an easy movement. "What's all this fuss then, Connie girl?"

She made a grab for his nose. He laughed softly and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't worry, I never liked it much either."

Connie snuggled into his shoulder, dribbling on his gown with gusto.

Foyle was looking at his hands and Andrew cleared his throat. "Dad, um, sorry for earlier. I was a right…" he broke off and rolled his eyes, leaving Foyle to fill in the blank.

Foyle looked up and twitched his lip, biting down on a corner. "My fault. I shouldn't have kept it from you…_either_ of you."

"Having thought about it all, I _think_ I understand. You had to keep your word to her."

Foyle nodded.

"You are a man of honour, Dad, I know that. And I know you weren't selfish or dishonest. I'm sorry I said those things."

"I just tried to do what I thought was right at the time," Foyle said quietly.

Andrew moved in place, rocking Connie gently in his arms. "We'd do anything for the women we love, wouldn't we?" he said rather wistfully.

Foyle looked at him carefully, "Er, Andrew…." he cleared his throat… "Look, I need to ask…"

Looking very self conscious, he said quietly, "Do you love Sam?"

Andrew's face went red, and Foyle wasn't entirely sure the young man wouldn't fly at him again. Then Andrew shook his head, "No, not like that. I can't explain it. I just feel awfully protective of her. She is just so… special." He gazed at Foyle, face open and honest.

Foyle nodded, his eyes conveying to Andrew that they would never have to speak of this again. The air was clear.

"We're all right, aren't we?" Foyle asked slowly, feeling unsure after the turbulent afternoon.

"Yes, Dad. Was just a bit of a shock, that's all. I'd like to meet him; if he decides…you know."

Foyle chewed his cheek and nodded.

"It's always the quiet ones…" Andrew murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Dark horse, aren't you, Dad. You were younger than I am now…you had me, Mum's illness to deal with, plus you'd lived through enough to last you a lifetime." Andrew added in slight wonderment, "I don't know how you did it."

"You get through it because you have to."

"Yes, I suppose so," Andrew said gravely. "Bloody awful thing, war."

Foyle agreed and sighed heavily.

Connie was quiet now and Foyle inclined his head, "Well done there."

Andrew smiled, "Good practise…"

Sucking in his breath sharply, "Er…something you want to tell me?"

Andrew's face broke into a broad grin, making him look incredibly boyish in the half light of Foyle's work lamp.

"I never asked about London…Sam said you've got a place?"

A twinkle came into Andrew's eyes. "I did yes."

"And, er…how was the rest of your time?" Foyle looked at him innocently, eyes obviously curious, however.

Grinning, Andrew said, "She's gorgeous, intelligent, and out of my league I should think."

"Oh?"

"Bruce — you remember Bruce Leyton-Morris? He was with the Crown Film Unit during the war, but I knew him from Oxford…"

Foyle shrugged, the name not registering.

"Anyway, we met up for a drink when I was in town…his sister and... _her friend_ joined us in the club later on. The Honourable Cassandra Willouby-Myers. I think her father owns half of Gloucester or something…"

"Goodness." Foyle suddenly smiled, rubbing his forehead with a forefinger, "Should I tell Sam to ready our best silver?"

"Don't tease. I'm sure she's forgotten all about me already."

"But _you_ haven't forgotten _her_, clearly." Foyle gave him a look, arching one eyebrow. "Andrew, if my past can tell you anything, let it tell you to follow your heart."

He spoke earnestly and Andrew nodded, a warm smile playing about his lips. "No, I haven't forgotten her…that's true."

Giving a half shrug, Andrew carefully handed Connie over.

"Good night, Dad. I'm glad we spoke. I'm sorry I was such a BF…"

Looking at his son, Foyle felt a sudden lump come into his throat. He swallowed hard. "We'll put it behind us."

Andrew put out his hand and they shook, as if concluding a deal. "Agreed."

"God bless, my son. Sleep well."

"You too, Dad."

Foyle waited, listening to his son tread up the stairs, slow tears dripping down his face. He pushed his nose into Connie's silky baby hair and thanked God for the young Irish padre who had spoken such sense a lifetime ago. He hadn't squandered his chances, and there was satisfaction in that. He'd come through it all at last.

Kissing the top of Connie's head softly, Foyle stood, switching out the light. Treading up the stairs carefully with his little girl heavy with sleep in his arms, Foyle smiled. His heart felt full and he was sure, at last he would sleep easily tonight. A sense of peace had returned to him, and he looked forward to days of family and fishing. Full days that promised life and happiness once again.


	14. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

There was a distinct nip of autumn in the morning air even though it was only the first week of September. By mid morning the sun had smoothed out any creases of the day, clouds rolling back to reveal a deep blue sky, a gentle breeze stirring some recently fallen leaves along the pavement. On the hearth rug, on top of a piece of muslin, Connie Foyle lay on her tummy, shakily lifting her head and shoulders, looking surprised at the effect.

Giving her a small rattle, Sam smiled, shaking the toy. "What's that?" she asked rhetorically. She was dressed in a light green, printed dress, barefoot with her hair down. She had forsaken the chores of the morning to play with Connie, and her apron lay discarded and forgotten on the back of the settee.

Connie first stuffed the end of the rattle into her mouth and then decided it was more exciting to shake it, the funny sound causing her break into a delighted gurgle. She began to babble, as if holding a conversation with her mother and Sam nodded seriously.

"Really, my sweet?" she enthused, tickling the little girl.

Sam jumped when the knocker sounded at the door and she looked up, wondering who it could be. Scooping up Connie, setting her comfortably on her hip, Sam made for the door. "Who's that then, eh?"

Standing on the doorstep was a young man. He had thinning hair swept over a round forehead, longer than when she had last seen him. A well trimmed moustache covered his top lip and he brushed it once with a forefinger before taking off his grey trilby hat, and clasping his hands behind his back. He wore a grey pullover with a red tie and jacket, and the broad sweep of his shoulders was visible underneath. Clear blue eyes stared back anxiously and he cleared his throat.

"I am sorry to disturb you, I—"

"James?" Sam interrupted, breaking into a broad smile. "James Devereaux?"

The young man look surprised and smiled shyly. "Um, yes. Hallo."

"I'm Samantha Foyle, Christopher's wife."

He smiled and nodded.

"Won't you come in? He'll be back for his lunch soon. He's been fishing all morning."

"I shouldn't like to keep you from anything."

His eyes took in her bare feet and easy appearance, and he looked apologetically at her.

Sam shifted Connie slightly and looked at the young man openly. "If you would like to come in and wait for him, I know he would be very pleased to see you. And I would be thrilled to have a chance to finally speak with you."

He looked embarrassed at such attention and gazed down at his well polished shoes. "Well…"

Connie gave a gurgle and held out a hand towards the young man. They all smiled and Sam added, "And Connie would too, it seems."

Devereaux nodded, "Yes. Thank you."

He followed her inside and sat down in the chair Sam indicated. She slipped on her shoes near the door and pushed back her hair with one hand, trying to instil a modicum of tidiness, trailing behind him into the lounge. It was Christopher's chair which he sat in and Sam sat down in the one opposite, putting Connie back on her muslin square between them.

"I..uh…well, I meant write, then I thought to come by. I meant to come sooner," he began, clasping his hands nervously.

"You've had a busy time of it, I expect," Sam said soothingly. "Glad you're here now." She smiled brightly at him and the young man visibly relaxed.

"Christopher was very kind to me."

Sam glowed.

He reached into his jacket pocket, "I've brought his books back."

Sam looked with interest at the titles and smiled softly, "He's a good man."

Devereaux nodded and said in an unexpectedly warm voice, "He has given me my life back. I owe him everything."

"He's told me the whole story," Sam said, catching his eye, "I'm sorry for what you've had to go through."

"Thank you. And I'm glad you know — it means we can be honest with one another." He paused a moment before continuing, "I should like to get to know him, if that's all right?"

Sam bit her lip, feeling the back of her eyes prick. "We would love for you to — Christopher has hoped you would consider spending time with him, with _us_."

Connie had been quiet thus far, but now she began to make her presence known. The young man looked down at her and gave a crooked smile. "She's beautiful."

"Would you like to hold her? Meet her properly?"

Though he looked a bit taken aback at the suggestion, he nodded. Sam scooped the little girl up and placed her on his knee. Connie stared up at him in surprise.

"Hullo," he said, "what have you been up to?"

Something in his voice stayed her intention to cry, and she continued to stare at him in amazement. She reached out a hand towards his mouth, grabbing for his moustache.

Sam grinned, "She does that with Andrew too — she adores him, and is so well behaved with him. I half wish he hadn't gone up to London for his work as he could get her down to sleep with very little fuss."

"Christopher told me about him. He was a pilot with the RAF?"

"Yes. He's got a position at a newspaper now in London. He's a writer at heart, I always thought."

Devereaux nodded, smiling down at the little girl on his knee, cooing and dribbling.

"I will just put the soup on to warm through for lunch. You'll stay I hope?"

"If it isn't any inconvenience."

"None at all. Back in a moment."

She left them and went through to the kitchen, heart soaring. _Christopher will be so relieved!_

For her part, she liked the young man as well; his quiet reticence was so reminiscent, and she felt an unabashed curiosity to know him more. There was also a desire to mother him: feed him up and look after him a bit. Knowing his terrible past, Sam felt her heart go out to him, and she wanted to make things better for him if she could.

When she came back into the lounge, he had relaxed even more and she could see a healthy colour beginning to rise through the pallor of his cheeks.

"James, we all want you to be a part of our lives; Andrew, me, Christopher — but we also realise it is your decision and we will respect whatever you decide. I know it hasn't been easy for you…" she paused, not sure of what to say.

He looked at her keenly, "Thank you for saying so, Samantha. I want to get to know you all. Truly. I'm just not very good at being part of a family…I've not had much practise…"

Sensing his sudden lack of confidence, Sam said warmly, "Never mind — we're a bit irregular as family's come anyway."

She began to tell him of their history: of her multitude of uncles and cousins in the clergy; of her father and mother, and of dear Uncle Aubrey; how she had met the Foyle's and her time working for the police; she told him of her and Andrew and how the relationship they had embarked on hadn't played out; how she and Foyle had come to a certain realisation towards the end of the war.

She spoke to him in earnest and he was content to listen. Though he was not used to Sam's chatter, he listened intently, answering her questions when required, and generally brightening. He smiled more, showing his teeth, laughing from his chest at her more amusing stories. From listening to her, he could begin to picture a life around the Foyles, and a further understanding glowed within him. Connie too was delighted with him, and happily sat in his arms without so much as a sign of a fuss.

The warm smell of soup was heavy in the air by the time their conversation had developed into a companionable easiness. He looked years younger, as if he had left behind the shell of himself and entered onto a new path.

"Listen, Samantha," he began at one point, looking at her directly. "My mother always called me 'Jack' — my favourite character in a story, and well…"

He paused, face suddenly unsure.

Sam smiled at him encouragingly and he went on. "I was always happier as Jack than James — almost as if they were separate identities. I know that's silly…"

"Not at all."

"Would you mind—"

"Calling you _Jack_?" Sam finished, looking at him with sudden tenderness.

He nodded, eyes clear and questioning.

They exchanged glances for a moment, developing a sort of understanding. The key in the latch drew their eyes away and he looked suddenly anxious again.

"That will be Christopher now. He'll be so pleased to see you, Jack," she said to him soothingly.

Foyle, hearing her voice, came into the lounge, still wearing his hat and holding his fishing gear. In his checked shirt and corduroys he looked like a man at his leisure, sleeves rolled back to reveal brown arms from long hours on the river. He looked at Jack sitting in his chair, holding his daughter and a slow smile that turned his lips downwards began to spread across his face. His eyes danced behind a sudden sheen of moisture.

"Hallo, sir," Jack said, standing. Connie gave a happy gurgle and flailed an arm towards her father.

"Very glad to see you." His voice was low and his face expressed relief and curiosity.

"Jack is staying to lunch, Christopher," Sam said, breaking into their thoughts. "So, wash up and join us…"

She left to dish up and lay the table, and Foyle turned back to the young man, smiling. "I'll be right through…_Jack_."

The two men smiled at one another, each fighting back the lumps that had grown in their throats. There was peace and mutual understanding in the looks and a gratefulness that exuded from both men. It seemed to Foyle that things had come full circle and he exhaled in a moment of self reflection. Jack nodded knowingly and followed in Sam's wake, bouncing Connie slightly in his arms as she babbled in his ear.

Chewing his lip, Foyle turned away to put his things down and wash his hands for lunch. As he set down his fishing tackle in a heap in the hallway, his mouth quirked into a crooked smile. He removed his old green trilby and placed it on the hat stand, turning back towards the centre of the house.

Moving towards a new start with his family.

_Fin_


End file.
